


Sons of War

by Tempest_Rulz



Category: Kingdom of Heaven (2005)
Genre: F/M, Family, Family Drama, Forbidden Love, Gen, Politics, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4604082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tempest_Rulz/pseuds/Tempest_Rulz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Godfrey of Ibelin never died on the way back to Ibelin? What if he'd had children other than Balian. Balian the blacksmith goes to the Holy Land with his father in search of salvation, but instead finds danger at every turn and becomes embroiled in family, love, intrigue, politics, sibling rivalry and war.  Featuring the characters from the film, along with Dowager Queen Maria, Baudouin of Ibelin, and Princess Isabella, amongst others.</p><p>Originally posted on Fanfiction.net under 'Telcontar Rulz'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ride East

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. The characters are either taken from the movie or from history. This story is heavily AU and veers into alternate history.

France was as he remembered it. Grey, cold, wet. The dirt path was frozen hard beneath the hooves of the horses. Clouds of steam mushroomed as they breathed. Snow stuck to their clothes and eyelashes, making it difficult to see. "My lord, are you certain this is the right path?" his squire called from somewhere in the column.

"I would know this path were I a blind man," he replied. Godfrey of Ibelin was only exaggerating a little. He had grown up here. This had been the path he had taken, along with his now deceased wife and two young sons when he set off for the Holy Land in search of fortune and salvation. That scene seemed as clear in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. However, it had been twenty years. Twenty years of wondering. Twenty years of fighting. Helvis had died of fever soon after their arrival in the Levant, along with their third child, a daughter, just two days after the birth. Back then, he hadn't even been the Baron of Ibelin, much less of Ramlah and Mirabel. He hadn't remarried. He just hadn't been interested. There was only one woman on his mind, and he'd left her back in France, in her husband's house, with his bastard child in her arms.

He'd never told anyone that the blacksmith's firstborn was not actually the blacksmith's. It would have broken Helvis' heart, and she had been fragile to start with. However, he owed Solange and he owed her son. His son. Their son. If their situations would have allowed it, he'd have taken her to Jerusalem with him, but they had both been married, and they had been too far apart in status. It wouldn't have been proper, and their son would have suffered if anyone ever found out that he wasn't legitimate.

Godfrey didn't know if the child survived. Life was harsh in Europe, especially if one was a commoner. He was drawn back out of his thoughts when his squire announced that he could see a manor house up ahead. His father's manor house; now it was his brother's. "We're here," he announced to his company. There was a collective sigh of relief; he could sympathize with them. Having lived in the warmer climates of the Levant for so long, it was difficult getting used to these snowstorms. He had insisted on coming, against his son's wishes. Baudouin had insisted that it was too dangerous. He didn't know the real reason Godfrey wished to return to France, of course. He knew he'd have to tell him soon, but he didn't know how to start. In fact, he'd only shared this with his closest friends, Brother John of the Order of the Hospitallers, and Raymond, Count of Tiberias.

His brother's welcome was courteous, but cool. He and Hugh had never been very close, for their temperaments were so different. Hugh was all about personal advancement, with very little care for honour and glory and God. His son Luc was more or less the same; at least, that was what he'd heard from the news that passed over to the East by the way of merchants and clergymen and the occasional mercenary. The latest news involved a war between his brother and the Duke of Orléans, in which the duke had invaded Le Puiset after Le Puiset's failed attempt at invading his duchy. The mercenary who had given him this news said that if it hadn't been for a young engineer, Le Puiset would very likely have fallen.

"He was insolent, that blacksmith," said Luc with a snort when Godfrey mentioned the incident. "But he was too useful to kill. Granted, I wouldn't have minded seeing his head on a spike."

"Blacksmith?" asked Godfrey. His interest was piqued. Was it the very same blacksmith to whom Solange was married, or was it…

"Balian, the firstborn of the blacksmith of your time," said Hugh as he bit into the juicy thigh of a goose. Grease dripped down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. "He is a skilled craftsman, but he sometimes forgets his place. All these fine cups are his work." It was fine work indeed. Godfrey felt a surge of pride. His flesh and blood was a siege engineer who had successfully saved his family's holdings without even knowing that he was of the same bloodline.

"He's a bastard," said Luc. His mouth was twisted into the most disdainful sneer. Godfrey swallowed. He couldn't let them know. His child had suffered, and it was his fault. "His mother spread her legs for some other man."

"I do not pay attention to such menial gossip," said Hugh with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And I am certain that your uncle isn't interested either. We are above such things. I do not care if he is a bastard or not. I care whether he continues to produce fine work, and if he continues in this way, I shall have to find a new blacksmith."

"I do not quite get your meaning, brother," said Godfrey. "The work I see here is exquisite. You can hardly find better in a palace."

"Does it matter how skilled he is if he does not work? He has been consumed by madness, and I fear he is all but useless now."

"He is not mad," said the bishop quietly. It was the first time that Godfrey had heard him speak. He remembered him vaguely. He'd been a young priest back then and he'd arrived just before Godfrey left. "He is grieving. It will take time for the heart to mend." The baron was curious. What had happened?

"His child died," supplied Luc. "His wife couldn't take it and she killed herself. It's nothing worth worrying about." Nothing worth worrying about? Godfrey was beginning to wonder if his nephew had a heart at all.

—

Snow covered the ground when he rose the next morning, but at least the storm had passed. Better yet, the young smith had been released from the makeshift prison in the barn, where he'd been locked to prevent him from doing harm to himself or anyone else. Godfrey was desperate to see him, to help him in any way he could, even if he didn't know how.

"He might not want to come with you," said John as they broke their fast in the privacy of his room. "This is his home. This is all he knows."

—

Strike. Spark. Strike again. The clanging sound of his hammer striking hot iron drowned out the keening he could still hear in his mind. It numbed him and sheltered him from his pain. Clang. He could see his son's dark lashes. Those eyes would never open; never see anything, for they were closed in eternal sleep. Clang. He saw his wife as she dangled from the rafters by her neck, her tear stained face blue and her glassy eyes wide open. She had neither heard nor seen him plead with God as he had cradled her cold stiff body in his arms.

He poured his grief and anger into his work, striking the metal as if it were the cause of all his pain. Why was he building brackets for a house for God when God had abandoned him? It was pathetic. He plunged the hot iron into the water. The water sizzled and steamed. He was exhausted, both physically and spiritually. He hadn't slept for days. He dared not sleep because whenever his forge fell silent and he closed his eyes, he would see his wife and his child. They haunted him; the thought of his child's soul wandering aimlessly between two worlds, denied entry into paradise not through any fault of his own, but because he wasn't baptized. The thought of his beautiful wife burning in hell. The fault was on him. If she hadn't married a bastard, she would not have been tainted by the sin that he carried from the moment he took his first breath. If she had married another man, she would have been happy. But she'd dared to love him, and she'd paid for it.

"Master, there are knights outside," said his apprentice. "They want to speak with you."

He set down his hammer. Having nothing to say, he had no interest in talking to anyone, but knights were knights. It would be foolish to offend them. Even in the depths of his grief, he understood that.

The knights wore unfamiliar colours; the crosses on their surcoats indicated that they were holy warriors. His mother had once told him —after he'd demanded to know the truth about his  _real_ father— that the man who'd sired him had gone to the Holy Land to fight for Christ. He briefly wondered if, by any chance, they knew that man, but then he decided he had no wish to know. He'd been alive for over two decades now, and not once had he heard from him. Why should he care whether the man was dead or not?

"You are Balian, the engineer who defended the castle against the forces of Orléans?" asked the knight in the black surcoat with a white cross emblazoned on it. The blacksmith nodded once. It was rude, and he knew it, but he simply didn't care enough. Why did they want to know who he was? He was just a blacksmith. "I am sorry for the loss," says the knight, not unkindly. "Your wife and child are the subject of my prayers tonight." He appreciated the gesture. Noblemen usually didn't care for the plight of their subjects. His lord only cared about whether he could continue making siege engines and fine goblets.

The knight then informed him that their horses need to be shod, they needed food, and that they could pay. Judging by the rich furs they were, he could safely say that they were well off, even amongst noblemen. Then again, those who went to the Holy Land and came back often brought great treasures with them. At least, that was what he'd heard. He'd never met anyone who'd taken the cross until today.

As he worked, he noticed that two of the knights, including the one in black, were watching him closely. Were they afraid that he couldn't do his work well? They had nothing to worry about. His father —the man who had raised him, that was— had taught him well. He ignored them. Shoeing these horses was just like shoeing any other horse. One of the palfreys whickered softly when he approached her. He patted her neck and she nuzzled his hand with her soft silky nose. She seemed to know and was, in her own equine way, offering him comfort. Horses had more sympathy than men. Everyone else seemed to think he deserved this.

"What does that say?" asked giant Germanic knight suddenly. Balian looked up. The knight was pointing at the words that he'd carved on the central beam of the forge, back in those days when he had believed that the world was good.

"What man is a man who does not make the world better?" said the blacksmith.

"What man indeed?" said the dignified old knight who had led the company to his forge. It was the first time Balian had heard him speak. He seemed to have left all the talking to that other knight in the black surcoat. "Leave me with this man. I must speak with him." It took a while for Balian to realize that the old knight meant him.

The other knights bowed to him and went outside, leaving the two men alone in the forge. "I would offer you my condolences," said the knight, "but as a man who has also suffered loss, I understand how insufficient such words would be."

Balian did not speak. Instead, he bowed his head and turned back to his work. He did not want to be reminded. "We can only take what God has given us," the knight continued. "We are but men." He paused, waiting for Balian to say something, but the blacksmith never spoke. The old knight cleared his throat. It seemed to Balian that he was feeling uncomfortable, although there was no reason why he ought to be. He was Balian's superior in every way. The blacksmith could only do as he commanded. "Some say that Jerusalem is the place to find forgiveness, but for myself, it is here, and now."

Forgiveness. Why did he need Balian's forgiveness? Then it dawned on him. His father, the one who had sired him, had taken the cross. His mother had never revealed his name, but could it be…?

"I… _knew_  your mother," said the knight, confirming his suspicions. "To be courteous, I have to say it was against her objections, but I did not force her. I loved her in my own fashion and I owe her, and you."

—

It was difficult to ask for his son's forgiveness, and he knew that he wasn't likely to get it —especially not at this moment, when he was grieving— but he had to try. "I am Godfrey, the Baron of Ibelin and Lord of Ramlah and Mirabel." Those names probably meant nothing to a blacksmith who had spent his entire life in a village in France, but he felt he needed to let the man know who and what he was. Perhaps the promise of a living would entice his son to leave this wretched place and go to Jerusalem with him. Godfrey wanted to make up for over twenty years of negligence. Old age made him sentimental, and he wanted all his family around him. With his eldest son, Hugh, gone, he only had Baudouin —and his family— and Balian. "I have seventy seven knights under my command and if you would come with me, you will have a living…and my thanks."

"Whoever you are, milord, my place is here," said the blacksmith quietly. The baron could see the grief in those dark eyes and etched into that face, so like his own in his younger days. If there had been any doubt as to this man's bloodline, it was now gone.

"What made it your place is now dead," said Godfrey. It was harsh, but it was true. He had to make the boy see that…somehow. Yes, he'd said that he wouldn't force the boy into doing anything that he didn't want to do, but persuasion was fine, wasn't it? Granted, he wasn't all that subtle, but subtlety had never been his strength, which was why he loathed politics. He usually let Raymond do all the talking. He was tempted to tell Balian that there was neither hope nor a future left for him in France, but he refrained. The man was no fool. He probably understood.

Balian shook his head, as if by denying the truth he could somehow change it. Godfrey sighed. "You will never see me again," he said. "If you want anything of me, take it now."

"I want nothing," said the man who wanted all the things that Godfrey could not give him.

The baron had said everything that he had come to say. If that couldn't change the boy's mind, then nothing could. "Well, I am sorry for your loss," he said. "God protect you." He turned to go, but before he left, he paused. Maybe Balian might reconsider his offer after a day or two. It was all so sudden that he must be in shock. "Jerusalem is easy to find. Just ride east and keep riding until they stop speaking Latin."

—

"You tried," said John early the next morning as they continued on their journey back to the Levant. The branches of the trees were heavy with fresh snowfall. It was still snowing lightly. Flakes of white drifted from the grey sky. It reflected Godfrey's mood. He was disappointed that Balian didn't follow him and sad that his son had to live through all of that. He didn't deserve such suffering. "That is all anyone could have done, and there is still a chance that he might…speaking of the devil, here he comes."

They heard the sound of horse hooves approaching from behind them. A rider on a cob past its prime rounded the corner. His shoulders were slumped from exhaustion. As he drew closer, Godfrey saw that Balian's face was covered with soot, and he was holding one hand close to his chest, a dirty bandage hastily wrapped around the palm. There were dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes; he probably hadn't slept at all.

Godfrey urged his palfrey forward as he rode to meet his son. "Have you come to kill me?" he asked. Somehow, he sounded cheerful. He probably shouldn't have. It was a very valid question. A grieving man was capable of doing anything. Balian did not answer. "Even these days, it is not easy." He would never admit that he was old. He was still stronger than many a young man, even if he did have trouble reading small script. Such script was just too small to be read, at any rate. There was nothing wrong with his eyesight and he would challenge anyone who claimed otherwise. "Well?"

Instead of answering that question, the young man simply nudged his horse forward. "I…" he began. "I have done…murder." The blacksmith looked down, troubled and ashamed. Godfrey didn't ask him who he had murdered, or for what. He believed that the man had his reasons; reasons which would be hard to express.

"Haven't we all?" he asked.

"Is it true that in Jerusalem, I can erase my sins, and those of my wife?" asked Balian. His eyes desperately searched Godfrey's face for answers. Godfrey didn't have any for him. How one found salvation was still a mystery to him even after all these years, but he had faith.

"We can find out together," he said as encouragingly as he possibly could. "Show me your hand."

Balian held up his wounded hand. His eyes were still downcast. Godfrey gently took his hand and unwrapped the dirty bandage —which couldn't have been doing much good— to reveal an ugly burn in the very centre of the blacksmith's calloused palm. The flesh was swollen and seeping, and strangely, the burn was shaped like a cross, as if Christ Himself had marked him out.

—

He'd expected to be handed over to the authorities, but the knights had treated him with kindness and sympathy. Many of them pitied him, although they tried not to show it. The knight in the black surcoat turned out to be of the famed Order of Hospitallers. He had properly dressed the burn on his hand.

They made camp in the forest that night, with the sky as their roof. The clouds had cleared and he could see all the stars and constellations, dusting the dark night sky like a scattering of wheat flour on the table top. That would happen when his wife kneaded the dough for bread—no, he couldn't think about her. He couldn't afford to. "Here," said John as he handed him a wooden cup filled with a strange smelling liquid. "It is the serum of poppy. It will take away your pain." It did take away his pain and stopped his dreams from plaguing him as he fell into an exhausted dreamless sleep.

—

The father in him wanted to let the boy sleep. He needed the rest. However, the knight in him believed that discipline was very important, and the sun was already high in the sky, albeit behind another thick layer of clouds. He was beginning to adopt a Muslim view of European weather. It made for bad temperaments. With that in mind, he tossed down a sheathed sword next to the sleeping form of his son. The boy woke immediately and was alert. That was a good start.

"Pick it up," said Godfrey. "Let's see what you're made of."

"His hand is hurt, milord," said John even as Balian picked up the sword, hurt hand or not. Good boy. He was determined. That was an important Ibelin trait.

"I once fought two days with an arrow through my testicle," Godfrey retorted. He didn't need to glance at the Hospitaller to know that John was rolling his eyes towards the heavens. He'd heard that story a hundred times, as had all his knights. In fact, that was how they'd met and befriended one another; John had tended to him in the infirmary. Without waiting to see his son's reaction, he attacked. The young man instinctively blocked and continued to block all of Godfrey's attacks even though the older man was slowly pushing him backwards. He hadn't been taught, but he was quick on his feet and he had talent. He just needed to learn the right moves.

"Never use a low guard," Godfrey told him. "You fight well." He never gave praise if it was unwarranted, but that didn't mean he wanted to discourage anyone. Well, at least not Balian. He tried his best to dissuade Baudouin from frequenting all the brothels in the kingdom, but to no avail. His second son had inherited both the Ibelin stubbornness and the tendency to sow stray oats.

That morning, Godfrey taught Balian the proper guards and disarmed him time and time again. Each time, the young man would retrieve his sword and take up guard again, determined to perfect what he had just learned. His self-discipline was every bit as good as his knights; it was something he'd been born with.

Otto the German soon took over the training. The giant had a few tricks up his sleeve. Godfrey saw no harm in it. Balian would probably benefit from getting accustomed to different styles of fighting. Life in Outremer was good, but one had to fight all the same. There were many dangers about. Unfortunately, not all could be countered with a sword.

The boy was learning fast. Try as he might, he couldn't stop thinking of Balian as being a boy. He was a grown man who would have had a child of his own had he not been struck by terrible ill luck. He'd been to war, engineered a defence against a siege successfully, and faced down derision his entire life. In many ways, he was more experienced than his older brother, who had led a privileged life. Granted, Godfrey tried his best to instil some sense of responsibility into his second son, but Baudouin had always been able to use his charm and good looks to his best advantage. The only time he hadn't managed to charm his way out of trouble had been when he'd been captured by Saladin in battle. That ransom had been very handsome indeed. Hugh had been much more responsible; that probably came with being the eldest. He also hadn't been as handsome. Poor Hugh. He sighed. His firstborn had never been a lucky man.

The sound of hoof beats jolted him out of his thoughts. A group of armed horsemen were approaching the clearing where they'd made their camp, led by none other than his  _beloved_  nephew. What in God's name did he want?

Godfrey stood, one hand on the pommel of his sword, ready for a fight. Behind him, the men congregated, including a sweaty Otto who was already fired up from the practise fight and a very tense Balian. "Uncle," Luc greeted him.

"Nephew," said Godfrey. "What brings you here?"

"You have with you a man, Balian, who killed a priest, his brother," said Luc. "I am charged by my father and the lord bishop to bring him back." Godfrey remembered that priest. He'd been the one who had shown them to the smithy, and he'd tried to sell them his brother along the way. He had hardly dared to believe that that had been Solange's other son. And now he was dead by Balian's hand. Balian must have been provoked. Of that he was certain. He waited for his son to defend himself. No matter what, he was not going to let them take his son. Certain death was the only thing that awaited him, and he'd only just found the boy. Man.

Balian stepped forward. He gave no explanation for his actions; no excuses. "What they say is true," he said quietly. "They have the right to take me." All the while, he and Luc were eyeing one another with such loathing that they had to have known one another for a while. All right, then. If he wasn't going to give a reason, then they were just going to have to keep him with them without reason.

"I say he's innocent," said Otto. "If you disagree, then we'll fight, and God will decide the truth of it."

"My German friend is a close student of the law," added John. The only law Otto had ever been a close student of was the one about trial by combat.

"Just give him to me," said Luc. "I'll fight you for something else. Uncle, he's a  _murderer_."

"So am I," said Godfrey. He'd lost count of how many people he'd killed, both lawfully and unlawfully. That was the way of the mercenary.

"He killed his own  _brother_."

"And I am about to kill my own nephew if you do not leave this instant."

Luc bowed, almost gleeful at the prospect of getting the chance to fight his own uncle. "You are my uncle. I must give you the road."

—

They were fighting and dying because of him. Was he really worth it? He had no time to think about it as he saw a crossbowman aim at Godfrey. Balian lunged at him and knocked him to the ground. His bolt flew wide and struck a tree. The arrowhead was embedded in the wood. The crossbowman threw him off and drew his sword, but Balian was onto him again. Using the hilt of his sword, he trapped the other man's blade and twisted it out of his hand before shoving the other man to the ground and stamping down on his throat. There was a crack as the man's windpipe was crushed.

His hands were slick with the blood of his enemies. They seemed to be less worried about him than they were about the other knights, even though he was the one they had come to take. His blade cut through chainmail, flesh and bone, cleaving limb from body. Battle was a bloody business, but not one that he was unfamiliar with. He would never become accustomed to the carnage, but it no longer made him feel ill the way it used to when he'd been a young soldier just beginning to understand just how ugly the world could be.

His injured hand throbbed. He ignored it. Something knocked him to the ground, or rather, someone, as an arrow flew over head. It was Godfrey. They both scrambled to their feet. Balian gave him a nod of thanks, soldier to soldier. They fought back to back, each coordinating with one another as if they'd rehearsed it. These knights were good; much better than the ruffians who rode with Lord Luc. Wait…hadn't Godfrey called Luc his nephew? If Godfrey was really his father, then that would make Luc his cousin. That was not something he wanted to think about, not after everything that Luc had done to him and his family.

Luc rode straight for them, sword brandished, determined to at least take out one relative, if not both. Balian lunged for the horse's hooves, making the animal rear up. At the same time, Godfrey bodily hauled Luc out of the saddle and threw him to the ground. Before Luc could even recover, the older man had slit his throat. Blood sprayed from the wound and then bubbled as he struggled to breathe through the liquid. He clutched at his neck, as if that would stop it. It was all so sudden that Balian didn't know what to think. Should he be pleased that his wife's tormenter was finally in Hell where he belonged? Or should he regret the fact that his cousin was dead, and partially by his hand?

He turned his attention to Godfrey. Godfrey had saved him. Twice, actually. He'd taken him under his wing and then knocked him out of harm's way, at his own expense. The older knight was bleeding from a shoulder wound where the arrow had grazed him. All around them were the bodies of the dead, both their friends and their enemies. Firuz, the Berber tribesman, had gone down fighting two knights. Others were nursing wounds of varying degrees of seriousness. John, ever the true Hospitaller, was already tending to the wounded. Otto had lost an ear and the wound was bleeding profusely. All this, for one blacksmith? Was it worth it?

"Why did you do all this for me?" asked Balian. "They had the right to take me."

"I am your father, Balian," said Godfrey tiredly. "I have that right too."

—

Finally, his father was coming home after that ill-conceived trip to Europe. The bad news was that he had sent some long lost brother of his back on a ship ahead of him. Long lost brother? Baudouin never knew that he had another brother apart from Hugh. He wished his father had discussed it with him before adopting a stray brother who might or might not actually be his kinsman. And, for better or for worse, the ship carrying said stray was missing, making his father very anxious indeed.

"I should have kept him with me," said the baron as he paced in the study of his house in Jerusalem. It was smaller than his study in Ibelin or Ramlah, so there was less room for him to do it. Baudouin stood against the wall, out of his father's way. "I should not have sent him ahead of me."

"What's done is done, Father," said Baudouin. "You should not take yourself to task. All is as God wills it." He  _was_  sorry that his father was in such torment, but he could not muster any sadness for the man who was lost at sea. He hadn't known him, and to be quite honest, he was suspicious about the motives he might have had in coming to the Holy Land. Godfrey was a baron with three holdings. Any man would want a share of those riches which were, by the way, his by right of inheritance. If Hugh hadn't died, they would have gone to him, but Hugh was gone, and as much as he missed his brother, he could not say he was sorry that all his father's wealth would pass onto him.

The steward interrupted Godfrey's pacing and announced that Raymond of Tiberias was here with some curious news. "Salah-al-Din sent the most curious message," he said.

"Shouldn't you be telling this to the king?" asked Godfrey.

"Perhaps, but I think you might want to know that someone claiming to be Balian, the son of Godfrey of Ibelin, has killed a Saracen warrior," said Raymond.

"Oh Lord," whispered Godfrey. He sank into a chair. "What does Salah-al-Din say?"

"That this Balian had cause and therefore did not breach the peace," said Raymond. "I am curious, Godfrey. Is this the son you said you were going to bring back?"

After that, everything went into an uproar as Godfrey sent out his men to search for Balian, and Baudouin found out that his father had given  _the_  sword to this bastard. He'd always thought that his father would leave it to him. "Why?" he demanded. " _I_  am your heir!"

"Baudouin, you are getting Ramlah and Mirabel. Surely you would not begrudge your brother a sword?"

"And Ibelin?"

"He needs a holding too. I will not have him become a mercenary, selling his sword for gold. You never liked Ibelin much. It is a poor and dusty place."

Nothing he could say could change his father's mind. Godfrey was determined that his youngest —bastard— son would get his share of the family's wealth.

—

He had never seen anything like Jerusalem before. So many people. So many sights and smells and sounds. And camels. The spice sellers and the cloth sellers were hawking their goods. The enticing aromas of roasting kebabs advertised the wares all by themselves. His stomach growled. He was hungry, but he had no money, and he wasn't quite desperate enough to sell his horse yet, or rather, the Saracen's horse. He'd exchanged horses with the man after he had led him to Jerusalem.

His father had said that their family had a house in the city, but he simply couldn't find it. As he wandered through the sea of people, he became aware that he was being followed by a group of armed men. Balian pretended that nothing was happening as he tried to find a strategic point where he would be most able to defend himself if they meant him harm. He found a public fountain and under the pretences of cleaning his sword, he unsheathed it. The men circled him. They had not drawn their weapons yet.

"You must know him," said the tallest one, a bald man. Probably from Champagne, judging by his accent.

"What?" asked Balian.

"Since you carry Godfrey's sword, you must know him," said the man.

"I do," said Balian. What more was there to say? If these were his father's men, they were probably out searching for him. Well, they'd found him. What next?

"A man my size," said the man. Balian nodded. "And green eyes." It was a test.

Balian shook his head. "Blue," he said. "Did he send you?"

"Yes, milord," said the man with a bow. "Come. Lord Godfrey and Lord Baudouin are waiting for you."


	2. Kings and Queens

The city was abuzz with the news that the previously-undocumented third son of Godfrey of Ibelin had arrived, and what an arrival it had been. "He must be someone worth knowing if Saladin himself sent word to pardon him," said Sibylla as her maidservant handed her a goblet of sherbet.

"I've heard he's handsome, milady," said the maid. Catherine was a plain but astute girl who seemed to know all the gossip in the city; it was very useful to have a servant like her when one needed to be ahead of things in order to survive. "But then, all the Ibelin men are."

"Being a son of Godfrey, I wouldn't expect anything less," said Sibylla. "But I am curious as to where Godfrey has hidden him all these years." She lay back on her low couch as servants fanned her. "Perhaps I should pay him a visit."

"It wouldn't do to be too obvious, milady," said Catherine. "You'll need an excuse."

"Godfrey is an old friend," said Sibylla. "I don't need an excuse to visit him after his return from France. And if I happen to make a new acquaintance, then it is just good luck on my part."

"The King has summoned Lord Godfrey to the Citadel," said Catherine.

Sibylla sat up and rose from the couch. The silk of her robes flowed like water as she moved. "I will act as if you never said that, Catherine," she said. "Come. A new curiosity awaits."

"Lord Godfrey's son is not an exotic beast to be gawked at."

"No, indeed. He is an exotic man from Europe who has piqued my interest. Tell the grooms to prepare my horse. I am going out for a ride." A handsome mysterious man from the faraway lands of France. What could be better than that? If his father and brothers were anything to go by, then the rumours of his handsomeness would be accurate.

Godfrey's house was in one of the quieter quarters of the city, nestled amongst other similar houses of comparable size. Even though its location was 'quieter' in relation to the rest of Jerusalem, one could still easily hear the sounds of the criers and vendors on the busier streets. The guardsmen at the door recognized her immediately and opened the gates for her, even as she indicated that they shouldn't announce her arrival. She was here to observe, not disrupt.

She urged her horse through the gates and into the square courtyard, scattering a few hounds and chickens. There was a blacksmith at the centre of the courtyard, hammering a shoe onto a horse's hoof. His back was to her, but it was a very interesting back, with well-defined musculature that rippled as the man moved. He must have heard her enter, but he continued to work.

"Where is your master?" she demanded of the man. Finally, the man set down the hoof he'd been working on and turned around to see who had interrupted his work. He was indeed beautiful; perhaps one of the most beautiful men Sibylla had ever seen, and she was accustomed to charming handsome courtiers, like Baudouin of Ibelin. The familial resemblance was there, but the half-naked man standing before her had none of Baudouin's arrogance or artificiality. He was irritated that he'd been so rudely interrupted, but he was too polite to say so out loud. Some things didn't need to be said.

"I have none," he replied, looking her directly in the eye. His daring was refreshing. Then again, he didn't know who she was. She wondered, briefly, if he would still behave in the same manner if he did know, but then she decided that she would not care to find out. She was going to enjoy this whilst it lasted.

"Give me some water," she instructed. He had every right to refuse her. She was being terribly rude, but he didn't, and it wasn't because he was afraid because he definitely did not fear her. He held up a silver ladle filled with water and she took it from him. Usually, if she ever made such a demand, other courtiers would be scrambling to offer her their finest goblets to drink from. She had never had to drink water directly from a ladle before. The liquid had been warmed in the sun, and it was slightly stale, but her mind was not on it. Instead, she was observing the man in front of her who was now stroking her horse's neck gently.

"You shouldn't work her so hard in the heat," he told her.

"Thank you for the advice," she said as handed the ladle back to him. "I shall take that into consideration. When the master of the house returns, tell him that Sibylla called."

* * *

"The rumours are most definitely true," said Sibylla to Catherine as she swept into her chambers. "He is very handsome, and so refreshingly frank."

"I know, milady," said Catherine as she removed Sibylla's veil and then handed her a cool damp cloth to wipe away the dust from her face and hands. "I was there."

"I was a bit rude, wasn't I?"

"You are a princess, milady. You are not rude; simply spirited."

"I do like the way you think, Catherine." Sibylla finished wiping her hands and threw the damp cloth onto the proffered golden tray. Catherine took the pins out of her hair, letting it tumble down in a mass of dark tousled locks. It gleamed in the rays of sunlight that filtered through the hand carved windows. "But he does not know who I am. I want to keep it that way. I could come to enjoy his company."

"You are a married woman, milady. It would not be proper."

"As if I could forget Guy. Besides, considering the way he looked at me, I do not think he thought much of me and my rudeness. Oh, such is the plight of women; we are scorned by the men we desire and desired by the men we scorn. Except…I do not think Guy desires me."

"There is no man in the world who would not desire you."

"Don't flatter me. I know that my husband frequently strays from the marriage bed."

"At least he is not like my husband, who died in the bed of his mistress as I waited for him alone."

"You know, it is unjust that a man can have so many women and not be despised by all around him, but if a woman should even think of taking another man to bed, she is condemned by all around her."

"This is a world of men, milady."

Sibylla gave a snort that lacked any royal dignity. "I would like to see how they manage without women," she said. Her thoughts would have continued to dwell on Godfrey's son if a high pitched shout had not interrupted her. "Maman!" Sibylla sat up and just managed to catch her daughter as the child leapt at her.

"Melisende, how many times do I have to remind you that princesses do not jump and leap?" scolded Sibylla. "You are supposed to be a lady. At this rate, we will never find you a husband."

"Good," said Melisende. God, she had her father's temper. William had been brimming over with opinions too and he hadn't been afraid to share them; at least, not with people he trusted. With his enemies, he'd been smoother than silk from the Far East. Sometimes, she really did miss him. She hadn't been in love with him, but there'd been love between them all the same. Unlike her ridiculous infatuation with Guy, which had long since turned into boredom and courteous disdain. "I don't want a husband. Boys are tiresome."

"You have to marry sometime, darling," said Sibylla, tucking a stubborn wisp of hair behind her daughter's ear. She'd let the child run wild, allowing her the freedoms that she'd never had but wished she'd had. "Or are you going to be a nun, hm?"

"My aunt Iveta is a nun, so why can't I be a nun too?"

Sibylla sighed. How did one explain politics to a seven year old?

* * *

The Holy Land was an alien world of sand and arid heat and blazing sun unlike any other he had ever seen. Everything was so bright, so colourful. Even the sky was bluer. The cacophony of voices on the streets, all speaking in different languages, could almost drown out his thoughts. If he tried hard enough, he could even forget, albeit briefly, what had brought him here to this beautiful strange place where Christ once walked.

He kept on thinking about the beautiful rude woman who had ridden away in a flurry of silk so colourful that it resembled a spun sunset. Balian had never seen such beauty in his life, nor had he ever met a woman who was so bold as to ride into someone's courtyard and make demands without so much as greeting anyone. She was utterly captivating. In fact, he was so preoccupied that he didn't notice his brother and father riding in through the gate until they halted their horses in the courtyard and dismounted.

Baudouin stared at him incredulously, unable or unwilling to believe that his brother would actually deign to take up a hammer to shoe a horse himself. Balian was very much aware of how different he and Baudouin were. His older brother was a properly brought up nobleman who knew the proper etiquette and way of doing things. He had charm, subtlety, and a way with words. Balian had none of that; at least, he didn't think so. He did not see the point in dressing up what he meant to say, and he just couldn't do it. Words were not his strength. He preferred actions.

"He will embarrass all of us soon enough," he heard his brother murmur.

"Quiet," said Godfrey sternly to his second son. "I am glad to see that you have recovered," he said to Balian. The younger man dipped his head.

"Milord," began Balian awkwardly. How was he supposed to address the man who sired him? In his head, he knew that Godfrey was his father, but in his heart, his father was still the old blacksmith who had raised him and taught him everything about his trade. They'd had their difficult moments. The blacksmith, his namesake, had been unreasonably harsh on him when he'd been younger, but in the end, they'd come to an understanding and the old man had loved him like his own son. Perhaps more than his own son. "A woman by the name of Sibylla called whilst you were out."

Baudouin spat out his mouthful of wine, spraying the sticky liquid all over the ornate camel-hair rug on the floor. " _Sibylla_?" he said.

"Yes," said Balian. "That was what she said her name was."

"And what did  _you_  say to her?"

"She asked for water, and I gave it to her. Should I not have done so?"

"Do you know who Sibylla  _is_?"

No, Balian didn't. She was most likely a noblewoman, judging by her garb, but he had no idea of what manner of noblewoman she was. Perhaps she was one of those…no. In all likelihood, women in the east were not like those in the west, and just because she was so bold did not necessarily mean that she was…well, a lady of the night who had the patronage of powerful men.

"Sibylla is  _Princess_  Sibylla of Jerusalem," said Godfrey, who seemed a little amused. Now Balian didn't know what to think. If she were the princess, then why did she not tell him? Why did she not demand that he pay her the respect that a woman of her rank deserved? From his understanding, barons, and the sons of barons, would go down on their knees before royalty. At least, that was what he'd heard. He'd never met royalty before, until now.

"Do you think…I offended her?" asked Balian a little apprehensively. He was completely out of his depth in this place. Every moment, he had to remind himself that he was not a blacksmith in a small village in France anymore. He was a baron's son, a nobleman, distant kin of the kings of France and the lords of Le Puiset.

He still felt like that blacksmith who became an engineer whenever war struck.

"Knowing Sibylla, she probably enjoyed the fact that you didn't know who she was," said Godfrey, slapping him on the arm. "She is an old friend of the family, and I'm willing to bet my best charger that she knew exactly who you were, my boy." Well, that was reassuring. However, Balian still wasn't entirely comfortable with the situation, especially not with the way Baldwin was looking at him.

His brother seemed to be contemplating fratricide. Baudouin's mistrust was obvious. Balian supposed that Baudouin suspected him of wanting to usurp part of his inheritance; he himself understood that sort of suspicion. After all, his other brother, Guillaume, had loathed him because their father had left the forge to him instead of to his own flesh and blood. And Godfrey  _had_  given him part of Baudouin's inheritance; the family's original fief, Ibelin. Balian wasn't interested in courting Baudouin's favour. However, he hoped that the other man would come to understand that he was not here for an inheritance. It would make things very complicated if the Ibelins were to fight amongst themselves. He understood  _that_  much.

"Well," said Godfrey as he got up from his seat. "You should get dressed, the both of you. We are to dine with the rest of the court tonight, and you must look the part of a lord of the House of Ibelin." Balian stiffened. A lord? Him? He couldn't imagine it, and apparently, neither could Baudouin.

"Father, that's a mistake," he said. "Look at him. You cannot take him to court, or do you want our family to be the laughing stock of the city?"

"He will be fine," said Godfrey sharply. "I have faith in him. He is of my house, and he will do me proud."

"But—" said Baudouin.

"We will speak no more on that matter, Baudouin, and if you are so afraid to be seen with your brother, then perhaps you should consider dining alone." The baron turned to his youngest son again. "There are people who are eager to meet you and I am eager for you to meet them."

"Milord, I have never dined in such noble company before," said Balian. "Perhaps I should wait—"

"There is a first time for everything, young man, and if you don't take that first step, you'll never get anywhere. It will be fine. Trust me. You will be a soldier amongst soldiers. This is where you were meant to be."

* * *

He tried not to stare, but he could not prevent himself from watching her. She was so beautiful and so at ease amongst all the lords of the kingdom. She spoke in the tongue of the Saracens to servants and discussed matters of state with her brother's subjects as if she were the queen, whilst her husband sat meekly by her side, occasionally speaking up to agree with her. Everything about her pointed to her exalted status; her airs, her confidence, her education, her ability to command attention and instruct men. She was like no other woman he had ever seen.

Their eyes met across the table. She gave him a small smile and then raised her cup in salute. He could only return the gesture; that was the polite thing to do, wasn't it? Balian felt like a donkey amongst destriers, awkward and out of place. Before him were steaming platters of meats and vegetables in strange spicy sauces the colour of desert sand and blazing skies at sunset. The spices burned his mouth, making him reach for his wine in a desperate attempt to douse the fires burning his tongue.

Everything was so different here; even the French they spoke sounded different, peppered with words gleaned from the locals. What were the  _hashashin_? They spoke of emirs and sheikhs, of princes and emperors. Balian had heard of the emperor who dwelt in Byzantium, but that was it.

There was another woman at the table, sitting slightly lower down that Sibylla and her husband. Her dark eyes were downcast, but they saw everything, observing every subtle move like a predator on the prowl, searching for the right prey animal before zoning in for the kill. She was not beautiful, and probably never had been, with her sharp profile and slanted eyes, but there was something about her that attracted the gaze of men. Her olive skin was oiled, and her dark hair tightly coiled on top of her head. She was slightly older than Balian himself, although she was much more experienced.

"That is the dowager queen, Maria Comnena, great niece of the Emperor," Raymond whispered to him. Godfrey had introduced Balian to his old friend, the Count of Tiberias. Balian liked Raymond well enough; the man was straightforward and he never tried to smooth his words. He bore a limp from an old leg wound, but his sword was fast and his mind even faster. It was Raymond who had told him that the Sultan himself had sent word that he was not to be blamed for the death of the Saracen warrior he'd killed in the desert. The Count of Tiberias had seemed impressed. "Be careful. She is on the lookout for a new husband."

"Surely she ought to have no trouble finding one," Balian whispered back. "She is not unpleasant to look at."

"Beware the wiles of a beautiful woman, young Balian," said Raymond. "She is dangerous. Her dower, the Municipality of Nablus, is rich, but she seeks a husband who is of one mind with her, or whom she can control. She wants to put her daughter, the Princess Isabella, on the throne, and she seeks a husband for her too."

All these princesses and queens and husbands and wives; it was making Balian dizzy. And he'd thought village gossip was complicated.

"She is watching you," Raymond adds.

Surely enough, Maria's beguiling dark eyes were fixed on Balian. They were her finest feature, framed with thick dark lashes and artfully lined with kohl. She did not attempt to talk to him or to communicate with him at all. Instead, she took careful bites of her food and remained silent. She was the type of woman who did not speak unless absolutely necessary, but when she did speak, men listened.

Nearby, Baudouin drank and laughed with a group of young nobleman clad in colourful damasks and brocades. Such opulence was not to be seen in Europe, where everything was so much more sombre, like the climate. Servants hovered about, unnoticed as they filled goblets and removed empty plates and dishes that had gone cold.

Balian felt a tap on his shoulder. "The King requests your presence, milord," said a servant clad in blue and gold; the colours of the Kingdom. "He awaits you in his study."

Godfrey and Raymond both rose, preparing to escort Balian into the king's presence. However, they were both intercepted by the dowager queen herself. "I will take him," she said in her lilting voice, her Greek accent subtle and exotic.

"Milady, you need not bother yourself," said Godfrey with a small bow.

"It is no bother, milord," said the queen as she rose in one swift moment. "I have had quite enough to eat and drink, and I wish to retire for the evening; it is merely a matter of convenience, as we are both heading in the same direction." Maria smiled at Balian, and he began to understand just exactly how dangerous she was. She might not be much to look at, compared to Sibylla and the other ladies of the court, but the queen had a sort of charm that only a seasoned woman could have.

* * *

He was so young, so innocent, and quite handsome. If she had been any younger, she might have fallen for a man like him. She was beyond such ridiculous flights of fancy now, of course. Still, she harboured an irrational liking for Godfrey, and she had a feeling that she was going to have that same sort of liking towards his youngest son. Baudouin she could care less about; he was typical of the spoilt young lords who populated this court. He was beautiful to look at, yes, but she knew enough about him to not feel anything for him, unlike the majority of women in Jerusalem. Still, if he hadn't been married, perhaps she might have tried to seduce him with the price of her dowry if not her charms, which were not insubstantial.

She brought her thoughts back to the present. Baudouin might be a candidate, but here was a far more suitable young man. He didn't know anything about the political intrigues, which ought to make him easier to manipulate. Besides, he'd been poor his entire life. Surely such wealth would be able to entice him into siding with her.

Maria glanced at the young man walking beside her. His shoulders were broad; he probably lived off the fruits of his labour back in France. It only made him more…appealing.

"How are you adjusting to life in the east, milord?" asked Maria, startling the young man. His eyes were as dark as her own, offering a window into a tortured soul. He was confused, in pain, in need of salvation. For a moment, she felt a stab of sympathy, but that quickly disappeared. There was no room for sympathy in Maria's life; she neither gave it nor received it.

"I am adjusting well enough, milady," he said, bowing to her. He was learning the ways of a courtier very quickly. She liked a bit of intelligence in a man. Actually, she really appreciated intelligence. It was a rare thing. "Thank you for your concern."

"I remember when I first arrived here," said Maria. Oh, how clearly she remembered it. She'd been so alone and frightened and angry that she'd been used as a political pawn by her great uncle. She was his favourite niece, for God's sake! However, knowing Manuel, he'd probably thought that he'd been doing her a favour by giving her the chance to be queen instead of some obscure princess somewhere. He'd always understood that she had ambitions. "Your father was my only friend." That was the truth, strangely enough. Godfrey had been kind to her. He might be on Sibylla's side now, but even so, there was respect between them. If he hadn't been such a staunch supporter of her stepdaughter's, Maria might have considered marrying him instead. As it were, they were political enemies now. Fate was cruel.

Balian gave her a small smile and said nothing. He was nervous and she could sense it the way a hawk would sense the hare's fear. He feared her, and he was right to do so. She was no longer the hapless young princess from Byzantium. She'd rooted herself in the politics of Jerusalem. Nothing was going to happen without  _her_  say-so.

* * *

He was on full alert. Maria was dangerous; at least, that was what Raymond had said, and he trusted Raymond's judgement. His father hadn't mentioned the dowager queen at all. However, considering the way he looked when she offered to take him to the king, Balian wagered that Godfrey never thought that she'd be interested in this blacksmith from France. He didn't think he'd gain the attention of a queen either, and especially not the Emperor's great niece.

She soon disappeared into her own chambers after pointing out the direction of the king's study. He was strangely relieved after she left and he let out a breath that he hadn't even known he'd been holding. Balian wasn't so naïve as to not realize that he'd been having an effect on her. The reverse was also true, for he had felt some sort of attraction towards that dangerous queen. However, it had mostly been trepidation and respect. She was, after all, a queen.

As the servants opened the ornate carved doors to admit him into the king's study, he felt as if he were walking in a dream. Pale tendrils smoke floated out from the bronze thuribles hanging from the ceiling, surrounding him like a mist on a cold winter's morning. The fragrant smoke hid an underlying cloying scent, not dissimilar from that of putrefying flesh.

"You must be Godfrey's son," said a voice. It took a while for Balian's eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. When they did, he made out a figure behind the veil of smoke, swathed in bandages from head to toe. "Come forward, so that I may see you."

The voice belonged to that of a young man, probably even younger than himself. The figure rose slowly and turned around. Instead of a man's face, there was one made out of metal. Balian stiffened.

It would have been nice if his father had told him that the king was a leper. Then perhaps he wouldn't have stared as much.

* * *

Maria had taken him. Sibylla had no doubt as to what her stepmother wanted. The Greek vixen probably thought that Balian was the pliable husband she was looking for. However, the princess doubted that it would be so easy for _her_  to get her claws into him. Balian of Ibelin was Godfrey's son. Ibelins — barring Baudouin— were not so easy to manipulate. She forced herself to remain calm and cheerful and she stayed for a few more moments before excusing herself, claiming fatigue. Men thought that women were more fragile than glass; they would accept that reason.

Guy offered to accompany her, but she declined. His company was the last thing she needed if she was going to find out what her stepmother had done to Godfrey's son. Guy might be a lenient husband, and he might bend over backwards to please her —because he was scared of her, not because he loved her— but she doubted that he would be pleased about her interest in this stranger from France.

Sibylla was fascinated by all things French. That was one of the things that had prompted her to choose Guy over Baudouin; Guy was born and bred in France. That was the only advantage he had over Baudouin of Ibelin, who was a more charming courtier and a more handsome man altogether, not that Guy's looks were displeasing. He simply lacked charisma.

The servants bowed to her as she passed through the corridor that led to her brother's study. Flickering torches lit up the windowless passage, which was decorated with mosaics of the most beautiful geometric patterns in blues and reds and greens and gold.

"Has my lord of Ibelin come this way?" she asked of one of the servants.

"He has just left, milady," said the man. "I saw him go into the gardens."

The gardens? He couldn't have gotten lost this quickly, could he? She'd thought he was more intelligent than that.

The servant was right. Balian was in the garden. Not only was he in the garden, but he was up a tree, trying to coax Melisende's kitten down from its perch amongst the tree's highest branches as the young princess watched from below, calling out encouragements and telling him to be careful.

There was no nobleman in the world who would climb a tree to retrieve a cat for a little girl, of that she was certain. Sibylla did not interrupt the scene. She stayed behind one of the pillars and watched as the highborn blacksmith —for that was what he was— spoke in soothing tones to the frightened ball of fur which was, ironically, named Asad, meaning 'lion' in the tongue of the Saracens.

The cat finally crept down far enough for the man to scoop him up. Still holding onto the animal, Balian inched himself down and then dropped out of the tree. Sibylla couldn't help smiling to herself as Melisende squealed in delight and held out her arms for her wayward kitten, all the while thanking her champion.

Yes, a champion. Little actions could divulge a lot about a man's character, and Balian, it seemed, was born to be someone's champion. Other nobleman would have made a servant go up that tree, but this one had done it himself. Then again, it was quite likely he simply forgot he was a nobleman. After all, he did shoe his own horse this morning.

"Melisende, you should not accost strangers thus, my daughter," said Sibylla as she emerged from her hiding place, startling both her daughter and the young knight, although the latter more than the former.

"I didn't, Maman," protested Melisende, despite not knowing what the word 'accost' meant. Her tactic was to deny the deed first and then,  _if_  proven to be guilty, apologize and charm her way out of trouble.

"I offered to help, milady," said Balian as he bowed. "I did not know that this was the young princess."

"That is only to be expected, with my daughter looking like a homeless waif on the streets," said Sibylla as she scooped up Melisende into her arms. Her daughter had smudges of dirt on her nose and her bare feet were dusty. "Besides, I cannot expect a man who would give a princess water warmed by the sun to be able to identify those of royal blood."

"I did not know who you were this morning," said Balian. "And I apologize if I have offended you in anyway."

"It is I who should apologize for my deception," said Sibylla. "After all, how were you to know?"

"You are a princess. A woman in your station need not apologize to anyone."

"Yet it does not make me any less in the wrong, does it, milord?"

She loved it when he smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled. There was no intrigue in his expression; no ulterior motive. He was just…good. She didn't have any evidence to back this up, save for what she'd just seen, but she could feel it. Some things just didn't require logic.

"Then I accept your apology," he said. As an afterthought, he added, "Milady."

He walked with her as she delivered Melisende back to her distraught nurse and gently scolded the child for scaring the poor woman half to death. She found Balian's presence soothing; even though she'd only met him today, she almost felt as if she'd known him for a long time, perhaps in another life or another reality. He was tenser than she would have liked, but they could work on that. They had time to truly get to know one another, and she intended to know him much better in the future.

"Walk with me, Lord Balian," she said. It was a command, actually. That was one of the privileges of being a princess; she could tell men to do what she wanted and they couldn't really object. "The evening is early yet."

He dipped his head in acknowledgement. They strolled through the gardens in silence. Somewhere, a peacock let out a mournful wail. A warbler trilled. Cool night breezes brushed through the leaves, causing them to rustle. They passed the pavilion where her father used to sit reading Arabic poetry. "Do you fear my presence?" she asked him.

"No," he said. And then he gave her a brief smile; nothing like the one before, but it was a smile nonetheless. She'd take what she could get. "And yes."

She laughed with him. "A woman in my place has two faces," she admitted. "One for the world, and one which she wears in private." He stared at her, waiting. She reached up, as if to touch his face, and then she let her hand fall again. No, she dared not. Not yet. "With you, I'll be only Sibylla."


	3. Pilgrimage

Candlelight cast flickering shadows on the wall. The tiny tongues of flame reflected off the tarnished surface of his silver goblet as it dangled loosely from his hand, with only a few droplets left at the bottom. Godfrey was deep in thought. Somewhere outside, a dog barked and was quickly hushed. Cool breezes from the desert caused the gauzy curtains to billow inwards. The flames bent, and then straightened again.

"Father, you saw how he was," said Baudouin. "He is not suited to the court. He is a blacksmith, not a nobleman."

"He has the blood of a nobleman and the heart of a knight," said Godfrey.

"Yes, but he is not ready for the world of the court," said Baudouin. "He has yet to learn the ways of the courtier. Please, Father, for our sake and for his, send him to Ibelin. He'll be safe there, and I daresay he will like it better than he likes the city." His son had a point. He remembered when he had first arrived in Jerusalem. The sounds and the sights and the smells had been overwhelming, as had the political intrigues and complicated interpersonal relationships. If not for Raymond and his friendship and guidance, he would never have survived. Balian needed to acclimatize; it would be better to introduce him to the world of God's soldiers gradually. There was so much that he needed to learn.

"All right," said Godfrey. "He will go to Ibelin." Baudouin smiled. "For now."

* * *

She needed to find an excuse to visit Godfrey's house again. Last night, after seeing Balian with Melisende, she just had to see that man again. Sibylla didn't think she'd ever felt so…content. It wasn't a word she really understood. All her life, it had been about wanting more. More power, more clothes, more children. Everyone around her had been the same. But Balian…oh, he had things that he wanted, all right, but they just weren't the same.

After they had delivered Melisende back to her terrified nurse, Sibylla had asked Balian to walk with her. A more experienced courtier would have declined or tried to use the opportunity to curry her favour. Balian had simply accepted and kept her company. If she hadn't asked him questions, she doubted he would have said anything at all. Sibylla recalled the conversation clearly. Not very many words had been exchanged, but they revealed a lot about this mysterious third son of Godfrey's, which only made her want to know more. There it was again; that word 'more'.

"How is your wife adjusting to the Levant?" she had asked him. Seeing as he was a man of a certain age, she had simply assumed that he would have a wife.

He's paused, and she'd sensed his sadness. "My wife is dead," he'd said. Dead, but not forgotten. He grieved for her. He'd loved her, and probably still loved her. That was yet something that was pretty much alien to her world; love.

"Then you must be found another," she'd said to him. "A man of your age and status cannot be without a wife. Who will look after your home for you, hmm?" He hadn't answered. Later, she'd sent Catherine out to do some discreet questioning. Baudouin had drunken too much and his tongue had been loosened. A few sweet words from her able handmaid were enough to make him divulge the fact that his brother's wife had killed herself after she'd delivered a stillborn child.

"Catherine!" said Sibylla. Her maid was there in an instant. "Tell the grooms to prepare the horses."

"What is your excuse for visiting Lord Godfrey this time, milady?" asked the handmaid.

"I will not ask you how you knew," said Sibylla. "Lord Godfrey is a dear friend, and I have yet to speak with him properly after his return from France. Yesterday, he was with my brother."

"And my lady knows very well that he is with Lord Raymond right now," said Catherine.

"I do?" said Sibylla. "No, I do not know. Come, Catherine. Enough of your words. I did not hire you to talk."

This time, Balian greeted her properly when she rode into the courtyard, and sadly, he was fully clothed. "Milady," he said with a bow. She missed the time when he would look irritated with her when she barged in unannounced.

"Milord," she said, dipping her head. She allowed him to help her out of the saddle. His hands were strong and calloused, both from battle and from hard labour. "Is your father here? I much desire to speak with him."

"No, he is not, milady," said Balian. "I am afraid he is with Count Raymond at present."

"How unfortunate, to have missed him twice," she said. "But no matter. Present company is quite sufficient, and you and I did not finish our conversation last night."

"I would love to indulge you, milady, but I am riding out soon. To Ibelin. My father thinks it would be wise for me to stay away from Jerusalem until I am more acclimatized to the ways of the kingdom."

Of course Godfrey would think that, and he was probably right too, but Sibylla was a little disappointed that she couldn't get to know his son a little better first. Jerusalem probably wasn't the safest place for someone like Balian. Godfrey had enemies, and they wouldn't hesitate to target the vulnerable and innocent boy from France.

* * *

Ibelin was a day and a half's ride from Jerusalem, through vast deserts under the blazing sun. It was still spring, so the heat was not as intense as if would have been in midsummer, but Balian found himself sweating profusely under the quilted gambeson and the chainmail. The holding itself was small, with just one hundred families and a small homely manor house that suited him just fine. He wasn't interested in being an important lord. He just wanted to get his wife and child out of hell…somehow.

His father had sent Almaric with him. The man at arms had always loved Ibelin more than Jerusalem. For him, Ibelin was home. Besides, Godfrey had said, Balian needed someone to help him settle into the role of a lord, no matter how small his fief was. He could hardly disagree. He hadn't the slightest idea what to do.

Palm leaves waved in the sultry breezes. The sun was just setting as they rode into the courtyard. Servants were hurrying to and fro, preparing for the arrival of their new lord. The steward looked about him as he tried to decide just which of these men was the new lord. His gaze finally settled on Balian —after he'd identified Almaric and all the other men at arms. Balian supposed he just looked like all the rest of them, with his dust-covered face and tousled sweaty hair.

The man bowed deeply to him and said something in the tongue of the Saracens. He would need to learn that if he were to survive here. However, the meaning, in this instance, was clear. The steward was welcoming the new lord to his home and asking him to come within. He followed the man, knowing that he was safe in his father's house, soon to be his house. The man, whose name, he later learned, was Hamzah, enthusiastically beckoned to him to follow him onto a wide balcony which overlooked the entirety of his fiefdom.

There was very little green. Nothing seemed to grow here except for a few palm trees. The fields were barren and dry, but people needed to eat. During his time spent in the Levant, he knew that most revenue came from trade, but even so, they needed something to trade. Right now, Ibelin sustained itself by being a small watering station for the traders.

"Your father has many important lands," said Almaric, coming up to stand beside his new master. "Ibelin is the least of all his holdings."

"It suits me," said Balian. He would be terrified if he were given anything larger than this. He'd never been in charge of so much before. Back home, he had his little plot of land and his forge. And his family. Here, he was a lord, and yet, amongst the noblemen, he was nobody.

* * *

She couldn't stand it. The city had become so dull without Godfrey's youngest son. She'd never felt this sort of lethargy before. She was restless. Then Sibylla made up her mind. She was half wild and everyone expected her to go wherever she pleased whenever she pleased. So if she were to…go on a pilgrimage, who was to stop her? William never tried, and Guy couldn't even if he wanted to. Her husband was almost…terrified of her. Sometimes, that was a good thing. At other times…well, he didn't hold her interest at all, unlike a certain knight whom she could not have.

Or could she?

"Catherine," said Sibylla. "Prepare for a journey."

"You cannot be contemplating going to Ibelin, can you, milady?" asked her exasperated handmaid.

"You should know me well enough not to ask."

* * *

Ibelin was a sleepy little hamlet. From her knowledge, it had never been anything more than a caravan stop. But now, it was abuzz with activity. Dirt was being carted away; every man and boy over the age of ten was at work, digging irrigation channels. Women brought food out to their menfolk and fussed over them, as wives and mothers tended to do.

In the midst of it all was a man who looked no different than all the other peasants, except she knew for a certain fact that he was not a peasant. Although, whether he knew was another matter entirely. His dirty linen under shirt clung to his sweaty body and he was busy tracking the movement of the waterwheel as it was being hoisted through the air to be put in place in the new irrigation system that he was building for his father's fief. Sibylla had to admit that she'd never been so interested in a man doing hard physical labour. The men she knew just didn't do it. This was servants' work. And yet, what was a leader if not a servant to his people?

"He certainly stands out even when he doesn't mean to, milady," Catherine murmured to her.

"I am not here for him," said Sibylla. "I am on my way to Cana, and I just happened to pass Ibelin on my way. It would be impolite to not see the lord of the land when I am in the area."

"You forget, milady, that Cana is not in this direction," said Catherine.

"I know where Cana is, Catherine. However, direction is relative."

By now, one of the young boys had spotted the princess' party and was running to tell Balian. The young man from France had not yet learned to speak the language of the Saracens, but the boy's gestures were clear enough. What truly marvelled Sibylla was the way the people had accepted him and adopted him as one of their own. He had been here for just over a month.

She told him her tale about going to Cana and stopping to request his hospitality. He gave it. Whether he believed her story was another matter entirely —she did not think him a fool, and no doubt he would have learned the location of Cana and other important pilgrimage sites by now— but that was of no importance. As long as she could say that she had not come for him, it would be an acceptable reason for her to be here, even though it might offend those with a strict sense of propriety. Then again, her family was never known for being proper. Her father had had numerous affairs; so had her mother. They said that her brother's condition was punishment for the promiscuity of her parents. It was unfair that the son should pay for the sins of the father.

He offered her his rooms. Of course she accepted. It was her right to have the best rooms of the house, although she suspected that he was offering out of a sense of honour rather than a sense of propriety. Balian of Ibelin was still very new to the world of nobility. Court had a way of making people too jaded to see beauty, and Sibylla considered herself to be quite jaded, having only ever known life in court as a political pawn. However, Balian was making her see the world in a different way, through his dignified humility and genuine desire to serve his people with no thought for power or prestige. She had not known such goodness existed. Godfrey came pretty close, but even he had become embroiled in politics.

She watched him from behind sheer curtains as he secured the waterwheel. There was something inherently beautiful in watching tired but exuberant people cheer as water started flowing through irrigation channels. It was strange. After all, wasn't this just water and mud? But for Balian, and for his people, it was a turning point. Ibelin would no longer just be a stop for caravans. Perhaps in time, it might actually be able to sell its own produce. There was hope to be found in that murky brown water.

His servants seemed to be in awe of the fact that the princess had come to this dusty place that ought to hold no interest for her. They didn't know how to act around her. Most of them just stared when she passed them. One would have thought that they had never seen a Frankish woman. Actually, that is a possibility. The last Frankish woman to visit Ibelin had been Godfrey's wife, and she'd died over twenty years ago.

Smoke rose from the holes in the bronze thuribles that hung from the rafters. The rooms had seen better days; the murals on the walls were faded and flaking. Ibelin needed the touch of a woman. Baudouin's wife, she believed, had never come here. She was either in Mirabel or Jerusalem. At any rate, she wasn't the type of woman who could be the mistress of a manor. She lacked the authority.

She took her feet out of the basin of rose-scented water. Her shift billowed in the mild desert breezes that brushed her skin like a lover's gentle touch. She pushed the curtains aside so that she could better see what was going on outside. Balian was still occupied with the waterwheel, securing it with ropes. It wasn't that the people of Ibelin didn't know how to build irrigation systems —they probably knew better than a man from France, as they were the ones who farmed in the middle of the desert— but no one had been able to rally them the way Balian had. Muslims, Jews and Christians had set aside their differences. What was it about him that could unite people like this? Appearance wise, he was probably slightly —just slightly— less handsome than Baudouin. He was soft-spoken, almost shy in a way, but he a sort of air that drew people to him. She couldn't figure him out and usually, it only took her a few days to get a feel of a man's character.

"Catherine," she said. "When he comes in, invite Lord Balian to dine with me."

"What will they say in Jerusalem, milady?" asked her handmaid.

"They will say nothing because they will not know of it," said Sibylla. And even if they did, who would dare to say anything to her? Certainly not her husband.

She'd brought her cooks with her, and she ordered them to prepare something simple. For those who were new to the Holy Land, the local dishes could be a little overwhelming. Perhaps he would appreciate something a little less spicy, and then perhaps something sweet afterwards. Blancmange, with almonds and rosewater and sweetened with honey.

* * *

"The princess is in Ibelin?" Baudouin could hardly believe it. It was not possible. His brother was…nothing!

"Our man says that she is on pilgrimage," said Geraint.

"Who is she praying to? Saint Balian?" He couldn't understand. What was it about that bastard that could draw both the attention of Sibylla and the Dowager Queen? Maria never even glanced in his direction, and yet on his first day, she had led Balian to the king.

Why could he never be so lucky? He could have been Sibylla's husband, but then he'd been captured by Saladin. During his captivity, Sibylla had gone and married that milksop from France. He still hadn't gotten over that. His pride would not take it.

Now he'd just have to finish up his business in Jerusalem and find a reason to go to Ibelin. Unfortunately, that might not prove to be so easy, especially if he did not want to draw more attention to the stray's antics, whatever they might be.

* * *

Day by day, she watched him turn a dusty little caravan stop into something more than that. Ibelin was beginning to look habitable. Slowly, crops were coaxed from once barren fields and traders started trading here instead of using it as a place to water their camels before moving on to more fertile pastures.

She noticed him watching her eat, delicately sucking honey from the tips of her fingers. His eyes followed her languid movements. Not once did he speak. "What are you looking at?" she asked him coyly.

"You, milady," he said. "It seems like a lifetime since I've seen a woman eat."

"Then you really must take my advice and find yourself another wife," she said. "It's not only expedient; it's right."

He glanced down, clearly slightly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going in. To be honest, Sibylla didn't really want to talk about it either —she was already jealous of the lucky unknown woman who would be his wife— but she felt that as his friend, she ought to be giving advice which would be good for him. They hadn't known each other for long, but she already loved him and cared for him deeply. In what way, she did not know. Romantic love was an ideal, not the reality. In her mind, she began compiling a list of women who would suit the position as the wife of Balian of Ibelin. There were only a handful of heiresses, and she didn't think much of them. There was Maria with her dowry, of course, but that wasn't actually an option. Maria would only seek to use him for her own gain. She would corrupt him, or try to. Her stepmother was a vixen of the worst sort.

One by one, she dismissed those women much more quickly than she came up with them. None of them were worthy of Balian. He needed someone intelligent, someone bold, someone who loved him not for his name and his association with Godfrey but for who he was. He was a light that was too beautiful to sully, too beautiful to waste on anyone beneath him. But who was his equal? Did she really think that she was his equal instead of his liege? Granted, his allegiance was really to her brother, but she and Baldwin had the same interests, so in effect, she was his liege too.

How could she have developed these feelings so quickly? It was irrational, and she had promised herself she would never be so irrational ever again after she had made the mistake of marrying Guy because she had been under the illusion that he loved her, when he was really just afraid of her. Balian wasn't afraid, or else he would have never accepted her invitations to dine with her. With him, she could just be Sibylla. Wasn't that all anyone ever wanted? To find someone with whom one could be oneself, without pretences and without masks?

Oh, why hadn't she met him earlier? She would have gladly married him, bastard son or not. Alas, her situation was secure. Her dream would remain just that; a pointless dream that could never be fulfilled.

Or could it?

Was she to be Eve, the temptress who led Adam to his downfall?

* * *

The flame perched on top of the thin taper flickered. She shielded the tiny light with her hand. The stone floors were cool under her bare feet. She didn't really know what she was doing or why she was doing it. The only other light came from the room at the very end of the long corridor. The door was open and she could see the silhouette of a man's profile as he sat at his desk, completely absorbed in what he was drawing. Her brother had charged Balian with designing new fortifications for Jerusalem. He must have shown real potential if her brother would entrust a new arrival —and a blacksmith, no less— with such a monumental task.

He looked up when he heard her approach and set down his piece of charcoal. For a moment, the two of them just gazed at one another, each waiting for the other to speak. There was an air of apprehension. Neither of them knew what to expect. Balian less so, she suspected. He knew little of the ways of the nobility, and even less of the ways of eastern nobility. Even though he was strong and able, there was still a strange sort of vulnerability about him that made her covet him and want to protect him. There were so many enemies in this strange land that he didn't know about. Court was like a nest of snakes.

"Why do you think I'm here?" she asked.

He slowly rose to his full height. These loose eastern clothes suited him very well. He hadn't looked half as comfortable in his court robes. The shirt was not quite loose enough to hide the contours of his muscles and the broadness of his shoulders.

"I know that Ibelin is not on the way to Cana," he said. Ah, so he was just playing along with her. Or perhaps he was too polite to ask about her purpose for being here.

"What else do you know, milord?"

"I know you are a princess." He lowered his eyes as if he feared looking at her for longer. His eyelashes were thick and dark, and almost too long for a man, but they suited him perfectly. "And I am no lord."

His beauty quite took her breath away. It wasn't just his well-formed features that she admired. She had seen many beautiful men, but none had been quite so…

Pure. Angelic. There was almost something sacred about the man who stood before her. He never pretended to be something he wasn't, never twisted the meanings of his words, and he never thought himself so important as to be above all the rest of his fellow men. In fact, if he had a flaw, then it was that he thought too little of himself.

"You are a knight and the son of a baron," she reminded him.

"The former is something I have neither earned nor proven, and the latter was not achieved through any merit of my own."

"Then in that regard, I am even less deserving of my own station. Some are born to privilege, milord. Others must earn it."

"It is not just."

"The world is not just." It was definitely not just. Why couldn't she have met this man earlier? Her other suitors would not have been competition for him. She wanted him, and he knew it. He was just not willing to voice it. "I am not here because I am bored, or wicked." He looked up at her again, and it was her turn to glance downwards. Suddenly, the confidence that had been with her throughout her entire life dissipated. She was no longer sure of herself, no longer a princess used to ordering men around. She was just a woman; just Sibylla. "I am here because in the east, between one person and another, there is only light." She wanted to give him everything she had to give. She wanted to open up herself to him, to tell him her greatest fears and her greatest joys. There was no reason for her to trust him so, yet she did. She had never felt this way before, this desire to rely on someone so completely. It was beyond rationality.

She blew out the flame. At first, they moved tentatively, each uncertain of what to do. But their passion could not be denied. He wanted her just as much as she wanted him. And when they touched, it was as if they melted into one another. They moved and breathed as one, and she felt as if she'd found something that she'd been searching for unknowingly her entire life. This wasn't right, but it felt right, so didn't that make it right?

* * *

Baudouin didn't know if what his spy was saying was true, but it hardly mattered. The fact that the man could even think such a thing was more than enough. His stray brother and the princess? It was beyond comprehension! What did Sibylla see in that country bumpkin from France anyway? There was nothing for it.

His stray brother was going to bring about the ruin of the family. He knew it.

"Who else knows?" he demanded of the spy.

"There are rumours in Ibelin, milord," said the man.

"Then quash them. No word of this can get out, do you understand?"

* * *

He had not thought that he would see colour again, but Sibylla had dispelled any notions that the world could remain grey forever. She had charged into his life, uninvited and in a storm of colour, every bit the demanding and spoiled princess that she was, and he found himself welcoming it. He loved her boldness, her warmth, her wit. He would never stop loving his wife, but the love he felt for his princess was…different. He couldn't really explain it.

There was awe, there was respect, there was a sense of duty, and then there was just an overwhelming need to protect her and safeguard her interests. Which, of course, coincided with duty, but he would do it even if he weren't obligated to. He didn't know what was going to happen to the two of them once they had to return to reality; a reality in which they could not be together for various reasons. She was a married woman, and he was beneath her. For now, he just wanted to enjoy the dream for as long as it lasted.

Guilt was always on the back of his mind. Adultery was wrong, but did that make their love wrong as well? Was he weak to have given in to his desires? He was here to find salvation for his wife and child, not to grow complacent like a well-fed lord. She was watching him from the balcony of his suite. He knew it even though he was too far away to see her. He couldn't stop thinking about her, and if the length of her stay in Ibelin was any indication, she couldn't stop thinking about him either. They certainly hadn't tired of one another's company at all.

She couldn't stay here forever, no matter how much they both wanted it. Sooner or later, she would have to return to her rightful place as a princess of Jerusalem, heir to the throne and wife of Guy de Lusignan. And he would be her subject, her ally. No one could know that they were lovers, not even his own father.

* * *

What most interesting news. Granted, she could understand why her stepdaughter had fallen for the young man from France. If Maria had been younger, she might have done something just as foolish. Age and experience had made her cynical. Sometimes, she wished she was that naïve girl of fifteen once more, although that didn't happen very often. At that age, she was a pawn. Now she played the courtiers like chess pieces.

For now, she would let the two young lovers be, if they were indeed lovers. So far, there was no confirmation. If she was going to accuse her stepdaughter of adultery, she was going to need more proof. The two of them had been careful; not careful enough to keep it secret, but careful enough so that the rumours would always remain rumours. For some strange reason, she didn't want to touch Balian of Ibelin. She didn't want to draw him into her game yet. He was…too precious to play. She didn't want to hurt him. Perhaps it was that irrational preference for Godfrey interfering with her ability to think again. He would really make for some excellent leverage, being so young and so unused to the ways of courtiers.

* * *

"I must leave tomorrow," she whispered. It was the most unwelcome thing she could have said. He knew that this couldn't last forever, but some part of him just didn't want to accept it. So he just didn't say anything. He didn't complain. Complaining was not something that he did or was particularly good at. She must have sensed his disappointment, because she gave him a wistful smile. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, as if committing it to memory. "My sister is getting married," she said. "The wedding is to be at Kerak, and it would be suspicious if we arrived together."

"Do we have to go at all?" he asked.

"She's my sister, Balian. No matter how much I don't like her mother, she is family. Besides, it is expedient. Everybody is invited. Yes, even you, milord." She cupped his face and brought her mouth to his. Her lips were soft, and her skin smelled of rose petals that had been warmed in the sun, along with the unique musk of woman.

Her hair fell down on either side of her head and formed dark silken curtains. Her fingers were entwined in his hair. He let her lead him. She showed him how much she admired him and he repaid the favour.

If God disapproved of their union, He certainly didn't show it.

* * *

There were coffers of silk and gold, all packed up and ready for transportation to Kerak. Maria wasn't certain, but by the looks of things, her daughter's dowry was even better than her own, and she was the Emperor's great niece. "Load the coffers," she said to the servants. Wind blew over the city, sending clouds of sand flying above their heads. Flags of cornflower blue and gold fluttered, proclaiming the city's ownership. This city belonged to Agnes de Courtenay's children. Maria and her daughter were outsiders.

Maria did not approve of this union. She had no liking at all for Reynald de Chatillon. Marrying Isabella to Reynald's stepson was yet another plan to alienate her. If they managed to turn her daughter —and her key to power— against her, then she would be completely isolated. Without a husband to help her gain access to her rich dower of Nablus, she would fade into obscurity.

But Maria was never a woman who was happy with obscurity. She would fight to the end. Her spies had permeated every corner of the country. There was hardly anything that she didn't know. If she needed to, she would use Godfrey's youngest son against Sibylla, but not yet. It would be a pity to throw that handsome young knight to the wolves. For some reason that she couldn't comprehend, she didn't want to sacrifice the boy. It almost felt like sacrilege. Was she going soft in her old age? She was only twenty nine.

 


	4. Return to You

Kerak was an impressive fortress, sitting high on top of a hill and overlooking its surroundings. Proud flags, bearing the colours of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, flew from its bleached stone battlements. Inside, hundreds of servants hurried this way and that, carrying heavy coffers and trestle tables. The noise was so overwhelming that it became a low-pitched hum. The good tapestries were brought out and hung up. The smell of cooking and spices pervaded the air, and Maria saw her future slipping away like the smoke rising from the kitchen's chimneys.

She needed a husband; a malleable, cooperative husband.

Stephanie of Milly, Humphrey's mother, barely dipped a curtsey as she passed her. Maria had no liking for Stephanie, who always thought too highly of herself. Her family might be considered old in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but she was no one when compared to the ancient bloodline of the Roman Emperors. Therefore, there was no reason for her to think so highly of herself, just because her husband was rumoured to be the most ruthless man in all the Levant.

The herald's shout caught Maria's attention. "Princess Melisende of Jerusalem!"

Melisende was on her own? Where was her mother?

Raymond, who had arrived a few days earlier, went to help the young princess off her pony. At seven years of age, Melisende had not yet learned of the intrigues of the court. She was bright eyed and eager for attention and adventure. Unlike her mother, she had not learned to be suspicious of Maria.

"Where is your mother, little one?" asked Maria after Raymond had left the little princess.

"She went somewhere secret," whispered Melisende in a conspiratorial tone. Poor thing. She was too young to understand that some things were secret for a reason. "But I know where she went."

"Oh?" said Maria. Melisende beckoned to her.

Maria bent down and the girl stood on tip toes to whisper into her ear: "Ibelin."

The Dowager Queen smiled. Could it be more perfect than that? The princess went off in secret to visit the fief of a young widowed knight. It would not be difficult to convince the world of their adultery. Whether there was any truth in the claim would not even matter. In the eyes of the judgemental world, they would be guilty. Surely the court could not allow an adulteress to be their queen. If it came down to it, she would throw Sibylla, along with young Balian of Ibelin, to the dogs just so her daughter could be queen. She would be a little sorry about the boy, but not that sorry.

Melisende's nurse led her away to be bathed and dressed. Maria wondered when the girl's mother would arrive. Would she arrive in the company of a certain young knight? No, she wouldn't. Sibylla was more subtle than that. She wasn't her mother Agnes.

—

The preparations were already well underway when Sibylla arrived at Kerak. Balian, she knew, would arrive two days later. It had been carefully orchestrated. He would arrive just before the wedding, and they would be so focussed on the wedding that no one would think to ask where  _she_  had been for the past two months.

Stephanie of Milly, Reynald's wife, was there to greet her, and she explained that Isabella was frantic with worry.

"I will go and see her," said Sibylla. Her sister was barely more than a child, being only four years older than Melisende. She found Isabella in her rooms, fretting about her wedding gown. The dress was made of the finest blue damask and embroidered with gold thread. Seed pearls edged the collar and the cuffs of the sleeves.

"Sibylla!" cried Isabella. The poor girl was genuinely glad to see her, even though Sibylla had mostly ignored her in the past. She was Maria's daughter. That was enough to warrant the elder princess's scorn. "I am so glad that you have come."

"Of course I would come, dear sister," said Sibylla as she kissed the girl on both cheeks. "Lady Stephanie tells me that you are nervous."

"I'm scared, Sibylla," said Isabella. "Mother tells me that there is nothing to be afraid of but…what if Humphrey doesn't like me? What if he doesn't love me?" Isabella was still young enough to believe in the myth of love. However, perhaps she was the wiser of them, because after her time in Ibelin, Sibylla wasn't sure anymore that love was an entirely fictional concept thought up by the bards.

"Of course he will like you," she assured her sister. "You are very beautiful. And love comes later, after you have gotten to know one another."

"Like you and Guy?" asked Isabella a little doubtfully. Could it be so obvious that even her hapless younger sister had noticed?

"Humphrey is not Guy," said Sibylla. She was lying. Humphrey was exactly like Guy; beautiful, weak, with no opinions of his own. The difference was that Isabella was also a meek little thing. Perhaps they would have more luck than her and Guy.

A shout from outside caught their attention. It was something about an army. What army? Sibylla went to the window.

Saladin had come with his army, preparing to lay siege to Kerak in retaliation for a raid lead by none other than Reynald de Châtillon. They would arrive in half a day.

—

He received the news just as he was about to set out for Kerak. The Sultan was marching on Kerak with seventy thousand men, and he, Balian of Ibelin, was the only one who could get there before the Sultan. The king would come with the army, of course, but they would not reach the fortress before it was too late. There were villages surrounding Kerak, and the villagers would not be able to get inside the fortress in time.

Balian knew what he had to do. He only had a hundred men, and he knew that the numbers were not ideal, but he had sworn to protect the helpless. Was this not his duty? To do whatever he could to protect those who could not protect themselves, even if it meant certain death?

He turned to his men. They were willing to die if he was, because what else could possibly await them but death? With their blood, they would buy the villagers enough time to take shelter within the fortress, and perhaps he would find the redemption that he had come to find. Surely such a sacrifice would be enough to convince God to take pity on his wife and son.

His calculations were correct. Not about God, but about time. His men got there just as Saladin's army was sighted on the horizon. He estimated that there were about a thousand men in the vanguard. Light cavalry. The Saracens only ever had light cavalry. Speed was their key to success. He and his men were heavily armoured, and if they were lucky, they might be able to hold off the vanguard until the king arrived with the rest of the army.

Within Kerak, he had no doubt that the men there would be preparing for a siege. However, no one had been planning on fighting. They were having a wedding in there.

Balian dug his spurs into his horse's flanks. He needed a destrier but he had yet to purchase one. Now it was a little late. His cob was going to have to fight and he hoped the animal was up to it.

He hoped he was up to it.

He glanced at the top of the battlements. There was a tiny figure there, barely discernible, but he could see it was Sibylla.

—

The messenger rode into the King's camp with great haste. Dust stuck to the sweat on his face and his lips were cracked from lack of water. It was evident that he had not even stopped to drink. He stumbled into the King's tent, causing the gathered lords to look up.

"Kerak," he gasped. "Saladin."

That was enough to make Godfrey snatch the document the man clutched in his hand. The writing on the crumpled parchment was a frantic scrawl. The scribe who had written the letter had obviously been frightened.

"What does it say, Godfrey?" asked the King.

"Saladin marches on Kerak," said the baron. "Reynald de Châtillon has asked for reinforcements. He has already sent word to Balian…Your Grace, my son has only a hundred men at arms, and while I do not doubt their skill, they will not be able to hold off Saladin's army." Godfrey feared for his son. He had only been so afraid once before in his life, when Baudouin had been captured by Saladin. "Let me ride out with my knights and their men."

"And leave the king vulnerable?" asked Gerard de Ridefort, Grandmaster of the Templars. He and Godfrey had never been on good terms, mainly because of Godfrey's continued friendship with Raymond. Once, Ridefort had been promised the hand of an heiress, but when the time had come for that heiress to be married, Raymond, instead, betrothed her to another man. Ridefort had never forgiven him for that. Some would have said that Raymond had gone back on his word, but the truth was, the girl herself had begged not to be married to Ridefort, and Raymond had taken pity on her. Not that he would ever tell anyone about it.

"I would rather die than let any harm come to the king," said Godfrey in a dangerous low voice. "But with  _your_  knights present, I doubt there would be any danger from Saracen marauders, especially since the Sultan's army is marching towards Kerak at the moment, no doubt to avenge the merchants who died beneath Châtillon's sword." He gave Ridefort a pointed look. No one said it, but they knew that Ridefort was as guilty as Reynald in this sense. There had been Templars involved in the raid, and they would never have dared had Ridefort not given them consent.

"Balian of Ibelin is a knight of the kingdom and of God," said Gerard de Ridefort, not quite ready to give up. "It is his duty to fight the Saracens, and yours, milord, is to keep the king safe."

"Are you implying that I am refusing to do my duty?"

In the middle of the argument, the King raised a hand to silence them. "Enough," he said. "If we do not send knights out, the villages surrounding Kerak will be trampled by the Saracen army. Balian of Ibelin cannot hold them off long enough with one hundred men. Godfrey, take your knights and ride out to meet the Saracens. I will follow with the rest of the army. Do not let any harm come to the villagers. If so much as one villager dies, the responsibility will lie with you and your son. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Grace," said Godfrey, bowing his head. Behind him, he could sense that Baudouin was about to protest. However, his son dared not defy him, especially not in front of everyone.

"Go," said the King. "Do your duty to God and the Kingdom."

—

The desert sun blazed down on them as they rode. Sweat poured down the faces of the men and the flanks of the horses, darkening their coats and their quilted gambesons. He saw the cloud of dust rising in the distance as Saladin's army drew ever closer to Kerak. The Saracens were fast; much faster than the Franks. Their horses and their armour were lighter, and their men were more accustomed to the heat. Godfrey could only pray that he and his men would reach the fortress before the Saracens did.

—

She prayed. She had never prayed so hard in her life, not even when William had lain on his deathbed. She had not prayed so hard even when she had been in the grips of the pain of childbirth. As Sibylla watched those tiny figures ride towards the clouds of dust in the distance, she prayed that somewhere up there, God would be listening, and that He would keep him safe.

"Milady, perhaps you should go inside," said Catherine softly as she laid a hand on Sibylla's arm.

"No," said Sibylla. "I have to be here." She was gripping the stones on the wall so hard that the rough surfaces of the rock made deep imprints in her palms. "Catherine, I…" She couldn't say it. Not here, not out loud in the open. Some part of her was ashamed of what they had done in Ibelin, but not ashamed enough to not do it again if the chance ever arose. She didn't know what was wrong with her. She had never felt so much fear and confusion in her life.

Balian had overturned the realities of her world. He cared for her not because she was the sister of the king. Other men had seen her as a means to put their own sons on the throne. Balian was not those men.

The two armies clashed. The dust clouds engulfed them, obscuring them from her view. It was quiet. She couldn't hear the screaming of men and horses, the sound of sword against sword, man against man. All she could hear was the sound of a gentle wind. They said God was in the wind.

Why would He allow Balian into her life, only to take him away again so soon? Was this her own personal hell?

—

It was life, it was death, and it was everything in between. Blood soaked the sand, turning it dark beneath their feet. Blades grew dull with blood. Blood was everywhere. Balian navigated his way through the confusion and death. His sword showed no mercy. He had to hold off the Saracens until the king arrived, and he hoped that he might be able to see it.

A few months ago, he wouldn't have cared if he had lived or died. In truth, he had been dead anyway, just with the semblance of life. Now it was different. He had people to live for. His father, Sibylla... And he had a purpose. The longer he lived, the longer he would be able to hold the Saracen cavalry back, giving the villagers a chance to escape into the fortress.

His horse screamed and reared as a spear was thrust into its chest. It toppled sideways, and Balian just managed to throw himself out of the saddle before the dying animal crushed him. An unhorsed knight was a vulnerable knight. He had been a foot soldier once. He knew. A knight without a horse would be weighed down by his armour. The mail would still protect him, but it would also hinder his movements.

His helmet had fallen off. Balian pushed back his mail hood; he was not keen on having to have someone dig links of chainmail out of his scalp. He slammed his shield into a Saracen who had been intending to take off his head. The man was thrown backwards into the sand, and before he could get up, Balian cut his throat.

Pain slammed him from behind. The air was driven out of his lungs and he fell to his knees. All around him, his men were being taken down, one by one. They were subdued by the sheer numbers of their enemies. He raised his sword just in time to block a blow that would have cleaved his head into two.

The head of a quarterstaff was driven into his abdomen, and then someone struck him in the back of the head.

There was a flash of white light, and then everything became dark and silent.

—

The dust settled as the great gates of Kerak closed. The battle was over. Sibylla was under no illusions as to what the Saracens would do to the prisoners, if any of the knights had survived to be taken prisoner. She closed her eyes. She did not want to think about it.

Her legs suddenly felt weak, and if Catherine had not been there supporting her, she would most likely have fallen. "Milady—" she began. Sibylla silenced her.

"No," she said. "Don't." This was a bad dream. It had to be. God would not be so cruel.

But God  _was_  cruel. Her life was proof of that. Why would God let her first husband die and have her daughter grow up fatherless? Why would God have made her brother a leper? It made no sense, but these things had happened. She did not understand why they called Hima God of Love. She was not aware of people staring at her as Catherine helped her back inside. She shivered. The shade felt cold.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, milady," said Reynald when she passed him in the great hall. "Wine?" He took a slurp from his goblet. The sound echoed in the emptiness.

"No, thank you," she said. "I gather it would taste of blood."

—

His mouth felt as if it was filled with sand and he tasted the metallic tang of blood. With some effort, he opened his eyes, only to close them again almost immediately. The light. It was blinding. And hot.

"Milord?" asked a familiar voice. Lord? He was not…

Then he remembered. He was no longer Balian the blacksmith living in a village somewhere in France. He was the son of Godfrey, lord of Ramlah, Mirabel and Ibelin. He was a knight. To be more precise, he was a captured knight.

He pushed himself upright. It was not easy, with his hands tied behind his back. The rope was wound around his wrists so tightly that his fingers were tingling as blood flow was obstructed. The gust of wind blew sand into his eyes. He was in a Saracen camp. White tents were pitched all around him. His men were here; the ones who were still alive. Almaric had been the one calling to him.

"Where's Roland?" he asked.

"He didn't make it," said the large man at arms. "Neither did Gregoire."

It should have been him. He should have been the one who had fallen. Granted, all of them had known that they would not survive the charge. Perhaps the dead were the lucky ones. He might have only been in the Holy Land for a few months, but he knew what happened to captured knights. They were either ransomed, as his brother had been, sold as slaves, or killed, depending on which Saracen commander had captured them. Balian knew that the first would not be an option for him. He was not going anywhere without his men.

The guards, upon seeing that he had woken, sent one of their own to alert the commander.

The commander came, and Balian couldn't help but be shocked by the identity of the man.

"You were not that man's servant," he stated flatly.

"No," said the Saracen commander. "He was my servant. My name is Imad-ad-Din. I am the Sultan's close advisor." He motioned for the guards to untie Balian. The knight rubbed his wrists when they were freed. He felt as if a thousand needles were piercing his hands when the blood rushed back into them, but it was a good kind of pain.

"What becomes of us?" he asked Imad.

"What you deserve, my friend," said the Saracen. As soon as the words left his lips, another guard came, leading a horse behind him. "You reap what you sow, my friend. I believe the Franks have this saying too, no?"

Balian nodded. He had indeed heard of it. That was what his neighbours had whispered behind his back after his wife's first miscarriage. He'd never thought he'd hear that phrase spoken in a good way, at least not in reference to himself. The guard bowed to him as he offered Balian the reins. The knight took them, but he did not mount the horse.

"You are free to go, my friend," said Imad.

"Not without my men," said Balian as firmly as he possibly could.

"I am afraid that might be a difficulty," said Imad. "I do not owe them anything and I have no reason to let them go. That is not our way, nor yours."

"Then I thank you for your generosity, but I cannot take what you offer," said Balian. "If they die, I die with them."

Imad stared at him, and then he chuckled. "I underestimated you, Balian of Ibelin," he said.

—

When Sibylla saw Godfrey, and the hopeless grief in his eyes, she knew that Balian was gone. Truly gone. She bit her lip. Tears burned at the back of her eyes. She could not weep for him. She could not. She took a shaky breath. "I am sorry for your loss, milord," she said to Godfrey in a voice so low that it cracked. "I will pray for him."

"Thank you, milady," whispered Godfrey. "He died with honour. There is little more that a man can ask for." Oh, there was so much more that  _she_  could ask for. She wanted Balian to reappear in her life as suddenly as he had first appeared in it. She wanted him to hold her in his strong arms and make her feel that everything would turn out right. But that was never going to happen. God had taken her knight away from her. She wondered if she was being punished.

Even with so much death, nothing could get in the way of a wedding, especially not a royal wedding. Isabella looked nervous as she said her vows. Poor child. Deep down, she knew she was being used as a pawn, that she and her new husband were both pawns for their parents. The two children —and that was what they were really; children— turned around to the adulations of their wedding guests.

They strode slowly down the aisle, as they had practised. In a few years, it would be Melisende's turn. Sibylla willed herself not to burst into tears. She had just lost the only man she had ever truly cared for, and her daughter would most likely never encounter such a man. Her heart almost broke then. This was the sacrifice they made for their kingdom and for their house.

A herald suddenly ran into the great hall, disturbing the proceedings. "Good news!" he cried breathlessly. "Good news! My lord of Ibelin has returned!"

Sibylla looked up. So did Godfrey. And Baudouin. And Raymond. Reynald and Stephanie as well. Even Maria, as stone cold as she usually was, turned her head towards the door. Only her brother, enthroned and masked, had not moved.

Balian stumbled in behind the messenger, coated in dust and streaked with blood, but alive. He wasn't alone. Over twenty more of Ibelin's men at arms slowly came in. Some limped. Some were supporting their fellow soldiers. But they lived. Balian sank onto one knee before Baldwin.

"Rise," said Baldwin. Those who did not know him would have thought his voice emotionless, but Sibylla knew better. Baldwin knew potential when he saw it. That was why he was a good king. "Seventy three of your men fell, Balian of Ibelin."

"The fault lies with me, Your Grace," said the knight quietly.

"You yourself are wounded," Baldwin continued. "Yet, despite your losses, not one villager died. The credit lies with you, and your men." He turned to Raymond and gave the slightest of nods. At once, the men from Jerusalem seized Reynald.

"What is this?" demanded the lord of Oultrejordain. "Sire!"

"You have tested my patience for the last time, Reynald," said Baldwin. "I will not have this lawlessness tainting my reign. Take him away."

—

The water in the bronze basin was tinted with red when it was taken away. At the bottom were tiny links of chain mail, painfully plucked from his side. Balian sucked in air through his teeth as the physician bound his ribs with linen. Someone handed him a cup of wine, poured from the decanter sitting on the low table by the bed.

"It's always better with wine," said Godfrey as he sat down on the bed next to his son.

"I am sorry about the men," said Balian as he took the cup. The wine was rich and sweet, flavoured with honey and cinnamon.

"The king does not fault you," said the older knight. Godfrey gave his son a wry smile. "It was a bold move on your part. Some might call it courage; others might call it recklessness." Balian simply stared at him. His son was a man of very few words, much like himself. Out of his three sons, Balian was the most like him, in every way. If Godfrey regretted anything, then it was that he had not watched the boy grow and therefore could not claim any credit for the man he had become. That blacksmith must have been a very good father and teacher. He was proud, but Godfrey of Ibelin was not a man who gave praise or expressed fondness easily. Instead, he clapped the younger man on the shoulder, making him wince as the sudden movement aggravated his wounds. "Wear a quilted gambeson next time, and I want you to come back to Jerusalem with me."

Raymond was waiting for him outside the room. "What did he say?" he asked.

"He apologized," said Godfrey. "That is one thing that I would change about him. He thinks everything is his fault."

"What did he say about  _Jerusalem_?" asked Raymond more impatiently. "We need more men like him, Godfrey. This is the chance for us to take control of the kingdom. With Reynald out of the way, the Poitevins are weak."

"He'll come, Raymond," said Godfrey. "He didn't say no." In fact, he hadn't given the boy enough time to answer, but knowing Balian, he would definitely come.

—

Jerusalem was as noisy and crowded as he remembered it, except people now knew his name. They greeted him on the streets, he heard them whispering about him in the corridors of the palace and in his father's house. His face was no longer unknown.

Jerusalem was also Sibylla's city. It was painful to be so close to her and yet so far away at the same time. When she addressed him, it was as his liege. Sometimes, he wondered if everyone could see the way they looked at one another, however briefly. Her longing was hidden in the depths of her pale blue gaze. Sometimes, he dared not look up in court for fear that observant eyes might deduce what had gone on between them.

Days. Weeks. Months. His father and Raymond started pressing him to look for a wife. He had grieved for long enough, they said. He needed a woman in his life. Ibelin needed a lady after so long. They suggested heiress after heiress, noblewoman after noblewoman. And then they dismissed them themselves. He could not tell them that the only woman he wanted was the one he could not have. It tortured him night after night, hour after hour.

One day, as he was brushing sand out of his horse's coat in the stables, letting the repetitive strokes numb his mind, Baudouin came looking for him. Ever since his arrival in the Holy Land, he and his brother had not exchanged more than a handful of words.

"I know she was in Ibelin," said his brother. "Don't try and hide it from me. I've been watching you."

"Then I suppose I don't have to say anything," said Balian as he continued to brush his horse without looking up.

"I don't know who you think you are, but understand this, whatever it is, it ends now," said Baudouin. "My advice is that you find a wife, ride back to that dusty patch of dirt, and stay there. It would be better for you, brother." With that, he strode out. Balian listened to him leave, and when he knew his brother was gone, he sat down on a bale of hay. The horse nuzzled his hair, demanding that he continued to groom him. The knight absently scratched the horse's ears.

He knew that leaving would be the right thing to do, both for himself and for Sibylla, but he would need a reason. He had his work here. The king needed him. His father needed him. He turned his eyes towards the heavens and prayed for an answer.

As usual, God was silent.

—

"The princess is with child!" Godfrey announced as soon as he strode through the door that evening, startling his two sons who were waiting at the table for him so that they could begin the meal. Baudouin's wife Richilde and his daughter Eschiva were here too. It was rare that the entire family was in Jerusalem. Usually, Richilde stayed in Mirabel. "The kingdom is saved! There is an heir to the throne."

Balian swallowed. At that moment, he truly hated Guy de Lusignan. That man did not deserve a woman as remarkable and beautiful as Sibylla. He poured himself a generous cup of wine and threw it down in one gulp, hoping that the fire travelling down his throat would take his mind off the phantom pain that he was feeling. His father didn't seem to notice.

"That is good news," Richilde murmured. "We should thank God."

"How far along is she?" asked Baudouin.

"Five months, the physician said," said Godfrey. "She hid it well, although God knows why she thought it needed to be hidden."

Balian's hand slackened. His cup slipped from his fingers. It shattered, sending shards of ceramic flying in every direction. He couldn't speak. He hardly knew what to think.

"My God," whispered Baudouin. "What have you done?"


	5. Blood of My Blood

Godfrey stared at his youngest son. Silence reigned. Balian said nothing. "Tell me what happened," said the baron quietly. The boy stood, but not a single word left his lips. It didn't matter. Godfrey had his answer. In an instant, he saw his family's future flash before his eyes. Their heads were all on spikes. Somehow, his hand connected with the boy's face, sending him reeling.

Richilde gasped and Eschiva started crying. Baudouin ushered them out of the room and closed the door. The women didn't need to see this.

Balian righted himself and wiped away blood from his cheek were Godfrey's ring had torn through the skin.

"What were you thinking?" Godfrey demanded of his youngest son. "Never mind. Don't answer that. It's obvious you weren't thinking at all!"

"I don't regret anything," said Balian quietly. "I love her."

"Oh, you love her," repeated Godfrey sarcastically. "I should kill you now and save us all from further trouble!"

"I owe you my life," said Balian. "It is yours to take if you wish."

"What? No, I didn't really mean it!" Godfrey looked at his son in exasperation. How could he be so naïve? It was partly his fault. He had been an inadequate and neglectful father. After all, he'd put the boy away in Ibelin and then brought him back out again when they'd needed him, as if he were some sort of pet or an ornament. He had had no guidance and no one to show him the dangers of politics in the kingdom. He turned his eyes to the ceiling. A spider had made a web in the corner. The paint was faded and cracked. There was no source of strength to be found there.

"What do we do now, Father?" asked Baudouin.

"There is nothing to be done about it now," said Godfrey. "This never happened. That is all."

—

Sibylla placed a hand on her belly as the women fussed over her, giving her advice on what she should eat and how she should move, as if she had not had a child before. The whole kingdom thought the child was Guy's. She wondered if Guy suspected anything. He was a fool, but not that much of a fool. He knew that the last time he'd been in her bed had been three months ago, and the physician had said she was five months with child. Yet he would never point it out. The princess knew her husband. He wanted to be regent. He also wanted to place his own son on the throne, but since he had failed to sire any children, not even bastards, that was not likely. His seed was weak, just like him.

Fragrant smoke rose from the thuribles hanging from the ceilings. There was a belief that incense could keep disease at bay. Catherine dismissed the other women and then handed her a silver cup full of a pungent dark brown brew. It smelled of medicinal herbs and bark and God knew what else. "For the sickness, milady," said the handmaid. "And there is something in there to make the little prince grow strong."

She eyed the cup dubiously but she took it anyway. Catherine knew a bit about herb lore, and she had always taken good care of her. Pale wisps of steam curled up from the liquid's surface. Sibylla blew on it before taking a sip, and then she grimaced. The bitterness filled her entire mouth. No matter how much she swallowed, she could not get rid of it. She endured and waited until the brew was cooler, and then she threw it down in three gulps. The empty cup was taken away and replaced by a cup of water. She rinsed her mouth out. Catherine held a basin for her to spit into.

"Milady, you have a visitor," said Catherine as she took the basin away. "He has been waiting for a while. I did not want anyone to see him."

At once, Sibylla knew who it was. Catherine was an astute woman.

"Take me to the pavilion where my father used to sit," said the princess, holding out a hand so that the maid could help her up. "I will see him there."

Outside in the gardens, peacocks let out their mournful piercing calls. A fountain warbled in the distance. The pavilion was as she remembered it. The paint had cracked and faded a little more, and there were dried leaves littered the floor. No one ever came here these days. Most of the plants had either died or overgrown. Yellow and green branches obscured the paths. Catherine helped her to sit down on the wooden bench in the pavilion before going off to fetch Balian.

Moments later, the handmaid returned, with the knight in tow. He had dark shadows beneath his eyes, as if he had not slept for days, and there was a dried cut on his cheek.

"Catherine, keep watch," said Sibylla. "Tell us if anyone comes. Lord Balian and I must speak in private."

Balian remained standing before her, and he did not sit when Catherine went some distance away to keep watch. "Were you ever going to tell me?" he asked. His voice was so low it was barely audible, but she heard him.

"Yes," said Sibylla. "No. Perhaps. I don't even know how to say it. As far as the world knows, this child is Guy's, and it must stay that way."

"I…understand," he said. His voice was hoarse. She felt tears burning her eyes and swallowed rapidly. Balian knelt at her feet.

"May I?" he whispered.

The painful lump in her throat had grown so much that she could not speak. She nodded. Slowly, gently, he placed his hands on her rounded belly and put his ear against it. Neither of them said anything. Some things didn't need words.

And then he got up and left without looking back.

When Sibylla returned to her chambers, she found that she was too tired to even weep.

—

He had to wonder who had done it. Guy knew that his wife did not think much of him, but surely she could not believe that he had swallowed her lies about that baby being his, could she? They had been married for five years now, and she had stopped letting him into her bed after two. And then suddenly, she'd invited him to dine with her. Even a fool would be suspicious. And then there was the timing.

Guy wasn't going to ask her, however. He couldn't. If anyone doubted that the child was his, then he would be back where he had started. At least now, he could call himself the father of a future king. Sibylla would never allow her child to be called a bastard. They both needed this baby.

But what of the man who had really sired that child? Guy knew, at that moment, that whoever that was, he could not live. He couldn't have such a threat hanging over his head. What if the man suddenly decided to step forward and claim what was his?

That was why he had to find out who had done it. Sibylla had said she'd been in Cana before she'd gone to Kerak. Catherine would never tell him anything. That woman would die for his wife. However, there had to be someone whose mouth wasn't sealed so tightly. He brought them all in for questioning, his wife's servants. Reynald had taught him that he needed to be harsh, to be ruthless, in getting what he wanted. He couldn't do that with Sibylla, for fear of losing her. But he could be ruthless with the servants. That was his right as a lord.

There was a young servant girl, only about fifteen years of age. She didn't know where Sibylla had gone for those two months, but she did report that the princess had visited Godfrey's house many times before that.

—

Maria knew, as soon as she heard that her stepdaughter was with child, that something had indeed happened between her and Godfrey's youngest son. She took a slow sip from her cup of wine as she reclined on a low couch by her window. The only noise came from the birds and the breeze. It had been a long time since she had had company in these rooms. Her own late husband had not frequented them often, and now that her daughter was married, she doubted the girl would have much time or inclination to come back to visit her.

It left her with a lot of time to think of her situation and how unhappy she was with it. To be truthful, she envied Sibylla. Her marriage might be as loveless as Maria's own, but at least Guy was easily controlled. And Sibylla's daughter was nothing like Isabella. Melisende had spirit, much like her mother. And then there was that Ibelin boy. Oh, how Maria envied her for that.

It would be so easy to end her now. An adulteress was condemned by all. However, she didn't really want to do it this way. Yes, it had everything to do with those Ibelins. Godfrey was possibly her only friend in this kingdom. She didn't want to harm him or his family if she had a choice

Silk rustled as she got up from the couch. Gentle breezes made the flimsy translucent curtains sway. She gazed out across the city. All of it could be hers, if she could find it in herself to tell the world just who was the father of that baby. Yet, was something inexplicably cruel about sacrificing Godfrey's youngest son on the altar of politics, compared to sacrificing someone else. Maria was not a soft woman. She'd lost any softness she'd had long ago. But seeing such honesty and nobility in this peasant boy from France awakened something in her. He needed to be protected. And, perhaps, loath although she was to admit it, she admired him for those qualities which would most likely get him killed.

Something told her to wait. If the baby was a girl, then yes, she would let the world know what Sibylla had done. However, if the baby was a boy…

That would be different. For many years, the kingdom had prayed for the birth of a little prince. They had enough princesses. But if the baby was a boy, then everything would change. They wouldn't want to believe that the prince was illegitimate. A baby boy would benefit everyone except Maria. Guy certainly would never say that another man sired the boy, no matter how little the baby resembled him.

—

Months passed. Anticipation hung over the entire kingdom as they all awaited news of the baby's birth. It was almost as if they were waiting for the second birth of the Messiah. Summer became autumn, and autumn was fading into winter. The change in temperature in Jerusalem was not as marked as in France, but the mornings began to feel chilly. Some years, there was even snow during winters in the Holy Land.

Late one night, after all the lamps had been blown out, a rider delivered a hasty message to the house of Godfrey of Ibelin. The princess had gone into labour.

The news drove all thoughts of sleep from Balian's mind. For months, he'd been both looking forward to and dreading this moment. He knew he could never claim the child, for the child and Sibylla's sakes if not for his own, but it did not mean he loved the child any less. This was his flesh and blood. No matter who claimed him, or what anyone said, they were inexplicably bound.

His father and brother sat with him at the table as they waited for further news. Only one candle burned, but it was enough. He felt a hand on his shoulder. "It's hard, I know," said Godfrey softly. "You have to be strong, Balian."

"He shouldn't have to be anything," said Baudouin. "He's not the father."

"I know what I am, brother," said Balian softly in a barely audible whisper. "You need not remind me." He did not look up from the cracked surface of the old wooden table, where a simple ring of garnet and gold lay. No one knew the significance of that ring except himself and Sibylla. And, if everything went the way it should, no one else would ever know. It was too dangerous; he might not know much about the politics in Jerusalem but he knew that much.

As dawn broke over the walls of the city, casting everything in a fiery hue, another messenger arrived from the palace, bearing joyous tidings.

The Princess Sibylla had given birth to a son.

—

The birth had been long and it had leeched almost all her strength from her. Almost, but not quite. "He's beautiful, milady," said Catherine as she handed the swaddled child to his mother.

Sibylla cradled the child against her bosom. Her breasts were so heavy with milk that they ached, yet it was not customary for noblewomen to feed their own children. The baby blinked up at her with large sleepy brown eyes. On his head were soft brown curls that would darken as he grew older. He might only be a few hours old, but already, he looked like his father. She bent down to breathe in his scent. He smelled of milk, as he should, as he had just been fed by a wet nurse, and also of something that was uniquely his own. She couldn't describe it, but she knew that it was imprinted on her mind forever.

Everything about her son was perfect. His soft skin, his perfectly formed features, his tiny hands; everything. She suddenly felt the urge to weep, not just because of the love that suffused her. This child was born into a world where people would all be seeking to use him for their own gain. Not only that, but he would have to live a lie as well, not through any fault of his own, but because of the sins of his parents.

"Milady?" asked Catherine. Concern laced her voice.

"I'm being silly," said Sibylla as she forced herself to smile. "It has been a long night."

"Should I have his nurse take him while you rest?" asked the handmaid.

"No," said Sibylla. "I want him here with me, or else I will never sleep." She lay back against the mountain of pillows behind her. Her hair was still damp with sweat and her thin linen shift clung to her body. In the kitchens, servants would be preparing bathwater for her. "Could you open some windows please, Catherine?"

"Are you sure this is wise, milady?" asked the handmaid. "The physicians cautioned against it."

"I need air," she said. "And I want to see the city. I have been in this room for a month, and I will be here for forty days more until my churching. If I cannot even look out the window, I will go mad."

Although it was early, the markets were already bustling with people, looking to sell or buy. The distant grunts of camels and the bleating of goats and sheep reached her ears. People had hung out their best tapestries and carpets from their balconies —if they had one— and there was a procession, thanking God for the birth of a healthy little future king.

Sibylla cared little for their joy right now. Her thoughts wandered to those blissful days in Ibelin, when the outside world hadn't mattered at all. It had felt as if she and Balian had been the only woman and man on earth. She still recalled his touch and his voice as clearly as if he were right next to her. These months must have been as difficult for him as they had been for her. She remembered the look in his eyes when he had first seen her after their return to Jerusalem. The longing, the yearning, and the pain of knowing he could never get what he wanted most. Those feelings were mirrored inside her own heart.

At that moment, Guy came in. Before, he had been merely a nuisance. Seeing him had been like seeing one of her whippets wandering past. Her husband had less character than her hounds. Guy wasn't unpleasant to look at. Perhaps his eyes were too pale, and his skin was too prone to burning, but his features were well-formed enough, and his flaxen hair might be called beautiful by some. But now, when she looked upon him, she could not help but think of another man, and the more she thought about it, the more she loathed her husband.

It was not that he was not as handsome as Balian. Physical beauty, after all, would fade over time. What Guy lacked was Balian's strength and character. Balian respected her; Guy feared her.

When he bent down to kiss her, she turned her head just ever so slightly so his lips brushed her cheek instead. "You have done the kingdom a great service, milady," he said. His voice was soft, as if he were afraid that his words might be heard by anyone. He gazed down at the baby's face. Those beautiful brown eyes framed by long dark lashes did not much resemble his own. "He is beautiful, our little prince." He made no move to touch the baby, not that Sibylla would have allowed Guy to touch him. "He looks like you."

"Yes," she said. When she had first married Guy, she had genuinely loved him. Now, she wondered how foolish she would have had to be to see anything in him. "I am tired, Guy. I need to rest."

"Of course," he said. "I take my leave."

—

Finally, it was quiet, save for the occasional songbird and the cheerful bubbling of a nearby fountain. The sun was setting in the west, behind the walls and towers of the city. The fragrance of rose petals rose with the steam from the surface of a bowl of scented water her maids had prepared for her. Sibylla washed her hands and took the proffered towel from Catherine.

People had been coming in and out all day after her churching. They had said they'd wanted to pay homage to her son. In truth, they had been trying to curry her favour in the hopes that she would recommend them to a king, either this present one, or the one who would succeed him when he succumbed to his disease.

Her brother had proclaimed her son the heir to the kingdom of Jerusalem. Everyone had expected it. After all, he was the only male child of her father's line. However, to actually hear it had filled her heart with dread. How could such a little child be a king?

The question had plagued her for days. She knew her brother could not hold on for much longer. She didn't like it, but she could not deny the truth. Soon, her son would be king in name, but the real king would be his regent. It was a covetable position that many would fight for, perhaps even kill for.

She gently stroked the baby's cheek with one finger, marvelling at the softness. That finally got the baby's attention. He opened his eyes and gazed up at her with his large brown eyes. He did not cry; he merely stared, as if he were contemplating something profound. He was such a quiet child; so much like his father. The love she felt at that moment was so great it made her heart ache. Her vulnerable, beautiful boy. He had no idea that there were wolves out there who would be more than willing to tear him apart. He had no idea that hundreds of men would try to use him for their own gain.

"Lady Sibylla," said Catherine, "you have a visitor."

"I have had many visitors today," said the princess without looking up. "Send him in so I can get this over and done with."

"Milady," said another voice. A very familiar voice.

It was as if time had stopped. For a moment, Sibylla wondered if she was dreaming. Standing in the doorway framed by golden mosaic tiles was the man who had occupied her thoughts for the past ten months. The way the sun's rays reflected off the tiles made it seem as if the light were coming from him. Weariness weighed down on him. There was pain in those dark eyes; pain which he neither could nor knew how to express. "I come to do homage to the little prince, milady," he said with a stiff bow.

Catherine, being the astute woman she was, dismissed all the other girls and closed the door so the three of them were alone with the child. The handmaiden made herself scarce, blending into the décor of the room so well that she might as well have been a piece of ornamentation.

Balian slowly knelt on one knee before Sibylla and the child in her arms. His eyes were lowered and his head was bowed. Without saying a word, Sibylla put the sleeping Baldwin into his arms.

—

God had taken all his imperfections and perfected them in this tiny being he now held in his arms. He marvelled at his perfection, from the tiny fingernails to the little nose to the long lashes that framed his eyes. Even if he had had the words, he couldn't have said anything. Balian wanted to laugh and he wanted to weep.

"He's beautiful," he finally managed to say. His voice cracked on the second syllable.

"He takes after his father," said Sibylla.

Balian wished that he would never have to let go. He wished he could take the baby and Sibylla far away from this place of political intrigue and war and build a safe haven for them. There was a painful lump in his throat that would not go away no matter how rapidly he swallowed. He finally gave the child back to his mother. He could not linger here for too long, lest anyone grow suspicious.

His heart was heavy with regret as he made his way back to his father's house. There were still many people in the streets even though it was dark. Lanterns and torches had been lit, casting the entire city in a soft warm glow. His reins hung loosely as he let his horse plod slowly over the cobblestones. His mind was far away elsewhere, wondering about what could have been or should have been. The truth was, he and Sibylla had no one to blame for their pain but themselves, but, if he were to be honest, he would do it all over again if given the chance. He loved her. That much was clear. Perhaps that was the only thing that was clear.

The gate opened before he even realized he was home. His thoughts had wandered so much that his horse had had to find his own way home. The animal placidly chewed on the bit as he waited for the servants to open the gates. He knew the way to his own stables. A servant held the bridle as Balian dismounted. His feet hadn't even touched the ground before he heard his brother's voice.

"Where have you been?" demanded Baudouin. "We have been searching for you for hours!"

"I have been to see the young prince and do him homage," said Balian.

"What? Are you mad?" said his brother. "Someone could have found out!"

"Half the court was there at some point during the day," said Balian. "It would have looked more suspicious if none of us had gone."

Godfrey appeared before Baudouin could say anything else.

"There you are," said his father. "Where have you been?"

"He went to see the princess and her son," said Baudouin.

"I can speak for myself, brother," said Balian. "Yes. I saw Sibylla and the prince. They are both well."

"Come," said Godfrey, putting a hand on his youngest son's shoulder and steering him in the direction of the main house. "It has been a long day and you look like you need a drink." He made no mention of either Sibylla or the baby, for which Balian was grateful. He wasn't ready to talk about any of it yet. He didn't even know how. He let his father guide him. Thankfully, Baudouin only made a disgusted sound and left them to their own devices. He wasn't sure he could deal with his brother right now.

Godfrey poured him a generous cup of wine. He didn't taste it as he swallowed the liquid. Some of it ran into his beard. The slight burn of the alcohol caused the emotions he'd been keeping inside him to flare. He slammed the cup down onto the table. Why was this happening? Why did men never get what they deserved? All he wanted was to be able to live his life and raise his child with the woman he loved. Was that really too much to ask?

"I know it's hard," said Godfrey.

"What do you know of it?" asked Balian hoarsely. "That's…that's my…" He knew he couldn't say it, not even here in the safe confines of his father's house. If he so much as whispered it, he feared it might reach less friendly ears. He could never endanger his son and future liege. He would die first before he let anything happen to that child or his mother. This, he swore to God.

"I left behind the woman I loved as she held our baby boy in her arms when I sailed for the Holy Land," said Godfrey. "I never knew if I would ever see them again. What's yours will always come back to you, and if it doesn't, it was never yours in the first place."

"It doesn't make it easier," said Balian. He held his head in his hands and rested his elbows on the tabletop.

"You'll learn to live with it," said Godfrey. "You're my son."

—

Echoes and smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies filled the dungeon. Guy ignored all the miserable wretches quietly rotting away in their cells. He would not be here if it hadn't been for that Ibelin bastard.

The nobleman held his pomander of an orange studded with aniseed close to his face to ward off the smells of the dungeons as he passed cage after cage. Some of the prisoners extended their filthy emaciated hands towards him and if he hadn't dodged them nimbly enough, they might have touched him.

At last, he reached the cell he was looking for. The prisoner within wasn't begging or snivelling like so many others. He sat on the stone bench. His distinctive red beard and his faded red hair were greasy, but he was fine. For now.

Reynald de Châtillon had a death sentence perched above him and it could fall any moment. They had postponed the trial until after Sibylla had given birth so the good news would not be marred by something so ugly.

"Well, I thought you'd forgotten me," Reynald said to him when they were finally alone. "Congratulations, by the way. I heard about the boy."

"The baby isn't mine," Guy whispered. He couldn't let anyone else know that the child was not a fruit of his loins. He would be shamed before all the kingdom. After all, he had been married to Sibylla for seven years, and there had not even been the shadow of an heir. Yet this…this… _blacksmith_  from France had achieved what he had not been able to! His manhood and his pride could not stand such a blow. "I need your advice."

"It doesn't matter whether it's yours actually yours or not," said Reynald. "What matters is that everyone thinks it's yours. You will still be Prince Regent when the king dies."

"Even so, I want the bastard that did this to pay." He outlined his suspicions to Reynald, who, although he did not care about the baby's parentage, delighted at the thought of spilling Ibelin blood; the more the better.

"Have you ever wondered how he escaped from the Saracens'?" asked Reynald when Guy was finished.

"I heard he was released," said Guy.

"Yes," said Reynald. "But how, and why?" He gave Guy a knowing look, and Guy finally understood what had to be done.


	6. Living the Lie

In the dimness of the room, it was hard to make out anything except silhouettes and shadows. That did not bother the King. He could barely see these days, and relied on scribes to read out documents to him. With this failing health, it was only a matter of time before there was a new king on the throne. All he could do now was to make sure his successor would not be facing internal turmoil.

Such turmoil seemed more and more imminent as tension escalated within the court itself. It was something that no one spoke of, but they all knew about it. If there was the slightest overbalancing of power and favour, everything they had worked so hard to build would fall.

The stone that would make all the difference, at present, was Reynald de Châtillon. Discontentment had been brewing in the 'Hawk' faction for years, and Reynald's arrest had only escalated that. The Hawks had support from Europe and from the Pope. It was of utmost importance that the Hawks be placated.

"You surely cannot mean to  _release_  Reynald, Your Grace?" asked Raymond. "He is a wild beast that cannot be controlled!"

"I wish I had no need of it," said the King. "But Reynald is only one of many. The Templars support him, and if this kingdom is to stand, then we cannot have one faction fighting another. You know that as well as I do, cousin."

"But you promised Saladin that he would be punished."

"And he will be. I may spare his life, but he will be stripped of his lands and he will not leave Jerusalem without permission. That is the most I can do, for now. I regret it, but I simply do not have the time. I am dying, you know. I must prepare for the accession of my sister."

Raymond, Count of Tiberias and of Tripoli, understood what his king was saying, but the thought of releasing Reynald made him uneasy. There was no knowing what that man would do next. He had too much influence amongst the Hawks. Guy, in particular, listened to his every word and more often than not, took his bad advice. It was bad enough that fool Gerard de Ridefort was now the Grandmaster of the Templars. As far as he was concerned, they had no need of another bloodthirsty barbarian stalking the court of Jerusalem.

However, the King was right. The Hawks needed to be placated and he supposed this was an acceptable compromise. Stripping Reynald of his lands and powers and confining him within the city was like pulling the teeth from the jaws of a mountain lion. He could still roar, but his ability to destroy would be reduced, even though it would never be completely eliminated.

"I am relying on you, Cousin, and Godfrey, to keep him in check," said the King. "I know he is dangerous, and I know he will cause trouble before long."

—

Gilles le Fouillon was so named because his long thin nose and squinting eyes reminded everyone he met of a weasel. He had come to the Holy Land in search of gold and glory —mostly gold— and instead, he had found a patron in Godfrey of Ibelin. He had hoped that having a lord would help him make his fortune. That had not happened yet, so far, and he was beginning to wonder if he ought to be doing something else.

When he had first set off for the Levant, he'd imagined a land of milk and honey, and gold, of course. That was what the Bible had said about it, at least according to the constantly drunk and barely literate priest who celebrated mass in his village. What he had found had been a patch of dirt.

So when Princess Sibylla's husband approached him, he became very curious indeed. Guy de Lusignan, being the lord of Ascalon, was a very rich man. Certainly he was richer than Godfrey of Ibelin, even if he was not as prestigious.

"You were with Balian of Ibelin when he was captured at Kerak," said Guy.

"That's right, m'lord," said Gilles, wondering what Guy could possibly want with a man like him. He couldn't read and he wasn't the best fighter.

"How did he secure his release?" asked Guy.

"The Saracens jus' let him go," said Gilles. "They let us go too. I don't know why."

"He made a deal with the enemy."

"He did? I didn't hear about it. How do you know?"

"He did, and that is what you will say when you are asked."

"And why would I say that? I have nothing against Lord Balian."

Guy smiled. "How is this for a reason?" He pushed a heavy velvet bag across the table towards him. Gilles heard the tell-tale jingling of metal. The radiance of the gold astounded him and made his mouth dry. He had never been so close to so much money before.

"There are fifty gold dinars in there," said Guy. "Do what I say and there will be more where that came from."

"What do you want me to do, m'lord?" whispered Gilles. He wasn't really thinking about what he was saying. His eyes were focused on the gold. How beautiful and bright it was, like little discs of sunlight. He'd been waiting for this for so long and finally, it was within his reach.

"It's simple," said Guy.

—

It was too quiet. Usually, Sibylla would not have minded some peace, but something felt wrong about this calmness, as if the world was taking a breath before something catastrophic happened. She rocked the crib absent-mindedly, singing a French lullaby. Little Baldwin slept soundly within. Sometimes, his fingers would twitch and he would make a few soft sounds. She wondered what he dreamed about.

Outside, there was a sudden commotion. She heard Catherine's protests and Guy's voice raised in anger. Guy knew what anger was? That was new.

"Milord, you cannot disturb them!" The argument drew closer. Sibylla forced herself to remain calm. If it was going to come then it would come, whatever it was.

Guy burst into the room. There was a madness in his eyes that she had never seen before. "I know," he hissed at her. "I know everything."

She stared at him with an unwavering gaze. The liquor on his breath was strong, and it gave him the courage to be angry. His anger further fuelled his courage. However, if she knew her husband, which she believed she did, then his courage would fade in time. "What do you know, milord?" she asked coldly.

"I know about you and Ibelin," he said. "Heads will roll, Sibylla. I have it all in place. They will be branded traitors to the kingdom for consorting with the enemy and they will die as traitors for their affronts to me! It's over, Sibylla.  _Over_. I have someone willing to testify against him. Your lover, that  _blacksmith_ , is a dead man."

She didn't know what to say to that. This was a side of Guy she'd never seen before. She knew he would suspect that Baldwin was not his son, but the notion that he would actually confront her about it had never crossed her mind. It was completely unimaginable. And what did he mean about the Ibelins? Surely he could not accuse them of treason? There was nothing to accuse them with! Yet, he was so sure of himself that she could not help but wonder at what he did have. He'd surprised her once. What was to say he would not surprise her again?

"Remember who you are talking to, milord,' she said at last, keeping her alarm well-hidden.

He gave a harsh laugh. "How could I forget, milady?" he asked mockingly. His words were slurred, but the bitter poison lacing them was clear. He stumbled away from her, still muttering to himself about rolling heads under his breath. As soon as he was gone, Sibylla called Catherine to her.

"I need you to take word to Balian," she told her maid. "No one can see you. Tell him that Guy is somehow going to accuse him of consorting with the enemy. Someone is willing to give false testimony. I don't know how and I don't know who, but tell him to be careful."

—

Dust made the air hazy. Catherine kept her head down. In her innocuous garb, no one realized she was from the palace. Still, she kept on glancing back every now and then to make sure no one was following her. The Ibelin house was on a quieter street in the city. The guards recognized her and opened the door for her. Godfrey's men were well-known for keeping their masters' secrets.

Godfrey was not home, but his son was. Catherine had never seen a man look so defeated and determined at the same time. It wasn't hard to understand how her mistress had fallen for him. It wasn't just because he was handsome. Balian of Ibelin had a heart. A truly good and honest heart. It was rare in any man, much less a nobleman. She passed on Sibylla's message. "What will you do?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "But I promise that nothing will happen to the little prince. Nothing."

She believed him.

—

Guy had something on him. Balian didn't know what it could possibly be, but if Sibylla's judgement was to be trusted, and he trusted her, then he was confident that he would be successful in accusing him of treason. Balian might not know much about politics, but he knew that if he was going down, he wouldn't be going down alone. His entire family would be implicated. His father, his brother, his niece…

"This is it," said Baudouin. "You've ruined us all! Now we will all die with you."

"That will not happen," said Balian.

"How are you going to stop it? You are a blacksmith. You know nothing of this," spat the older brother.

"That's enough," said Godfrey.

"I may be a blacksmith, brother, but I am not a fool," said Balian. He turned to his father, knowing that his plan would be met with a barrage of protest, but what other way was there? "You have to disown me and turn me in. Tell them I am not your son, that I somehow tricked you into believing that I was your son."

"That is insanity!" said Godfrey. "You  _are_  my son, and I will not hand you to the wolves like a lamb on a platter!"

"Father, listen to him," said Baudouin. "He's making a lot of sense."

"I owe you my life, and I cannot ruin your lives," said Balian.

"And what of the honour of this family?" asked Godfrey. "You are asking me to lie to save myself."

"Please, Father," said Balian. "You must do this; if not for yourself then for my little niece. She is an innocent child. Don't let her be dragged into this." He knew he'd made his point. His father stared at him. Unshed tears made his eyes look bright. Godfrey pressed his lips together and finally nodded. Without saying a word, he abruptly turned on his heel, no doubt to make the preparations. Balian watched him go. Silence roared around him. His blood rushed past his ears. Suddenly, he felt the need to sit, to regain his breath. He would never quake in fear, but he could not deny he was afraid. But this was right. It was the only way to save them.

"Perhaps I may have misjudged you," said Baudouin. "But will you go through with it?"

"I made a promise, brother. I never make promises I cannot keep," said Balian.

"Let us hope you do not break," said Baudouin. "There is no knowing what you will face."

—

The commotion reached even her inner sanctum. There were angry cries and shouts of outrage. Sibylla looked up from her embroidery. She was too far away to make out the exact words, but it wasn't often that such a fuss was raised within Jerusalem itself unless her brother was holding court, and she knew that wasn't the case. Mere moments later, her maid rushed in, her face pale save for two red spots of exertion on her cheeks.

"Milady," she said. "It's Lord Balian…"

Sibylla suddenly stood, spilling the coils of thread and needles from her embroidery basket. A spool of deep red yarn unravelled as it rolled away from her feet, leaving a crimson trail. "What about him?" she whispered.

"Lord Godfrey says he is not his son, that he is a traitor," said Catherine.

Her blood rushed to her head. She felt faint, and if her maid had not been there to catch her, she would have fallen. "He's made his move," she whispered. She knew what he was doing. No doubt he had planned it all. She should have known that he would do something like this. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't. She wanted to weep for him, but he was a traitor now. How could she weep for a man who had, supposedly, betrayed her kingdom?

"What will you do?" asked Catherine softly.

She didn't know what she was going to do. Catherine's voice sounded hollow. Everything seemed to be smothered in fog. She moved without her own knowledge, groping blindly for something to hold onto, but there was nothing. Nothing at all. Her blood rushed past her ears. She was drowning in fear, drowning in sorrow. Finally, her fingers touched the edge of Baldwin's crib. The child lay within, his brown eyes gazing up at her with infinite wisdom and innocence. If it wasn't for him, Balian would not be in this position. If it wasn't for him…

Sibylla knelt down beside the crib. Balian knew what he was doing. She could not blame her baby for that. Her beautiful boy, who looked so much like his father. She reached down to stroke the baby's cheek. He turned in the direction of her touch. Even if it killed her, she would raise this boy to manhood. That was the only thing she could do for Balian.

—

"What?"

Guy couldn't believe it. His plan had been so perfect, but somehow, that blacksmith had managed to ruin everything. He  _wasn't_  an Ibelin? Why did that have to be revealed now? And was it even true?

"That, I had not expected," said Reynald. "I must say I didn't give Godfrey enough credit. I didn't think he was capable of doing something like this."

"What do you mean?" demanded Guy.

"Well, I don't know if this peasant is an Ibelin or not, but this way, we won't be able to tie him to the other Ibelins. Even if he dies, he dies alone," said Reynald. "Think about it. We know the boy probably did not consort with the enemy, and I wager Godfrey knows that as well as we do. It's genius. Brutal, but genius. And it also means that someone told them about our plan."

Guy kept silent. He wasn't sure, but he might have let slip some information to Sibylla that day when he had charged into her rooms, inebriated and furious. He couldn't recall exactly what he had said, and he wasn't about to admit he had done such a thing. "It doesn't matter," he said. "Balian is the one I want. As long as I have him, I am content."

—

The door of his cell slammed shut behind him. The bars cast shadowy stripes across the straw strewn stone floor. Apart from the occasional crackling coming from the dim smoky torches, it was silent in the dungeons beneath the city. He sat on the stone bench. Chains weighed down his wrists and restricted his stride, not that he was going to be walking anywhere any time soon. He thought of his family. This was the only way to protect them, and he regretted nothing. The thought that his father and brother and his little niece was going to be safe sustained him. And, of course, there was a beautiful unreachable princess and their perfect son who would one day be the king of Jerusalem.

Thinking of them gave him some comfort and helped to dull the fear that gnawed at him. He had to admit he was terrified, not of death —he wasn't afraid to die for people he loved— but the path that would take him there. Stripped of his titles and all the protection that being Godfrey's son offered him, his enemies could do whatever they wished with him, and for certain, he had enemies. Powerful ones.

Courage was not the state of having no fear.  _That_  was stupidity. Courage was the willingness to do what was right in spite of fear. Balian was more than prepared to do what was right. He'd sworn it.

He lifted his head when he heard voices coming down the corridor. They drew closer, and he recognized the men to whom they belonged. Reynald, Guy, and Gerard de Ridefort; three of the most influential men in the kingdom were going to spend time with him, a peasant from France who had somehow managed to fool all the lords in Jerusalem into thinking that he was a nobleman's son.

"Well, what do we have here?" said Reynald, peering in through the bars. In the dim light, his eyes resembled black pits in his weathered face. "It looks wild." Balian remained silent. No matter what they said to provoke him, he would not rise to the bait. He had expected all of this, and much worse. "And it's insolent."

"We can change that," said Guy. "Milords, it's time to teach this cur who its masters are."

"A warning, milords," said Gerard. "He must be fit to appear before the court when the king summons him."

"What?" asked Reynald incredulously.

"He will have a trial," said Gerard. "The king is going to ask too many questions if he appears in court with bits of him missing."

"Don't concern yourself with that, Gerard," said Guy. "It won't be damaged much. I intend for it to sing."

—

King Baldwin was no fool, and he prided himself on being an excellent judge of men. In the past, perhaps, he might have erred in his judgement, but years of experience had honed his instincts, and everything about this unfortunate incident was suspicious. He doubted Godfrey would have taken in an imposter under the mistaken notion that he was his son. He doubted Balian had the guile to do such a thing. Most of all, he doubted the claims that Balian had somehow committed treason.

But this had to be dealt with. The claims were serious and could not be dismissed, and if the truth did not come out, then he would have no choice but to execute a good man upon whom he had placed so many hopes, because it was not everyday he saw a man so clearly distinguished from his peers. Balian was made for great things, and it would be a terrible waste for him to die for no good reason.

He summoned Godfrey and Raymond. The former seemed to have aged many years in the span of a day. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and grey stubble covered his cheeks. His shoulders slumped, as if he was carrying a burden that was too heavy. His old teacher was always very easy to read.

"I suppose you know why I have summoned you," said the king.

The two men nodded.

"It is alarming that someone can impersonate a nobleman of this court for so long without being detected," he continued. "However, I doubt that is the truth. The truth is what I seek."

There was no response, except Godfrey seemed even greyer than before, if that was even possible.

"What happened, Godfrey?" asked Baldwin. It pained him to see his old teacher like this. When he had been young, Godfrey had seemed so undefeatable. He'd looked to him as a father, since his own father had often been absent from his life. It had been Godfrey who had first discovered he could feel no pain. It was Godfrey who had taught him to ride even as his body deteriorated to the point where it had been an effort just to remain sitting in the saddle.

Godfrey shook his head.

"Nothing will leave this room, but I cannot help you if I do not know what is going on," said Baldwin. "I do not believe Balian conspired to infiltrate your house, nor do I believe he would betray this kingdom. I would be a despot to kill a man for something he did not do, but that is what I will have to do if you do not help me to reveal the truth. So, as your king, I command you to tell me everything."

—

It was all going to be over soon. His wrists were raw and bleeding from where the metal manacles cut into them as he hung suspended between two posts driven into the ground. His feet barely touched the floor.

He tensed as the lash split his flesh and curled around his torso to tear red marks into his belly. His wounds stung as sweat trickled into them. An involuntary grunt escaped from his throat as the lash struck again, rending raw flesh. Red lines adorned his back, crossing over one another like a red net. Blood ran from his wounds, down the backs of his legs to soak the straw strewn floor below. He thought of Sibylla, of the little prince, of the reason why he was doing this. It made the pain more bearable.

"Ah, so it isn't a mute," said Reynald. The man grabbed Balian's face and forced him to look at him. "Are you going to sing for us, cur? Tell us of the deal you and your father made with the infidels. Oh, yes. He says you're not his spawn, but I know better. Why should you let him leave you here to take the fall for him?"

Balian said nothing. He had nothing to say, and he was not going to give Reynald the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He might be a dead man, but he was a proud dead man.

"I guess not," said Reynald. "Not yet." He held out a hand. An iron was handed to him, the end of it white with heat. Balian clenched his teeth and looked away, but even so, a cry of pain was torn from him as Reynald pressed the hot iron into his wounds, cauterizing the raw flesh. "Well, it does have quite a voice on it."

"It's not the right tune, Reynald," said Guy.

"Patience, milord," said Reynald. "I'll teach him yet." He held out his hand for another heated iron. Pain shot through him as the white hot metal burned the sole of his right foot. He screamed as the thousands of nerve endings were seared.

"How do you like that, little bastard?" asked Reynald. "Are you ready to sing for us yet?" Balian sucked in lungfuls of breath. He might not be able to stop himself from crying out in pain, but by God, he was not going to talk. They could torture him, maim him, kill him, but he would never tell them anything. There was too much at stake. Compared to that, his life was nothing. Balian closed his eyes and prepared for the worst. Then he heard a voice, as if sent from Heaven, except his father was hardly an angel. However, to Balian, Godfrey might as well have been an angel.

"Cease at once!" The baron's voice echoed in the vast corridors, reverberating off the walls and it seemed to shake the very foundations of the city. Godfrey stood at the entrance of the cell, flanked by loyal Ibelin men and Brother John.

"Godfrey, I had not expected your company, considering this embarrassing business with your family," said Reynald. Godfrey ignored him.

"I have direct orders from the king," he said. "Lord Raymond and myself will be conducting the interrogations." He held out a rolled-up piece of parchment to Guy. The blood-red wax seal bore the king's emblem.

Guy broke the seal and his face paled as he read the edict. He nodded to Reynald and Gerard. Without saying another word, he stormed out of the cell. The other two followed him. Gerard gave Godfrey a hard stare, which the other man returned with disdain. Finally, father and son were alone.

—

The court was filled to the brim with noblemen and the spectators who were just here for sport. The king sat upon his throne; regal, masked, unmoving. Despite his crippling affliction, he was the pillar of stone upon which Jerusalem rested. To his left was his sister. There had never been such a beautiful woman gracing the court of Jerusalem ever since her mother fell from favour.

Godfrey took his usual place beside Raymond. The count had been told of almost everything that had transpired, except the secret of the prince's conception. Godfrey had sworn to take that secret with him to his death. If anyone ever found out about it, then everything Balian had sacrificed, that he himself had sacrificed, would have been in vain.

A hush gathered as the prisoner was escorted into the court. Balian held himself stiffly, as if every movement caused him pain. Every now and then, he stumbled, only to be hauled back onto his feet by the men guarding him. He did not look at his father. He did not look at anyone. The baron swallowed as his son was led before the court like a common criminal to answer for crimes he did not commit. His only mistake was that he'd loved the wrong woman.

This was entirely his fault. No, really, despite what Baudouin kept on telling him, that this was Balian's mess, Godfrey could not help but blame himself. If only he had been there to guide his son through the murky waters of politics. If only he had kept a closer eye on him, then perhaps it would not have come to this. Every wound on his son's body, every burn and every bruise; he might as well have inflicted them himself.

There was nothing more to be done. Now disowned, Balian was no longer a nobleman, and the rights that nobility could claim did not belong to him anymore. Reynald might not have had the king's permission to do what he'd done, but as a lord of the realm, it was within his right.

The charges were read out. As the evidence was listed, things looked increasingly worse. Balian  _had_  befriended a Saracen. That very same Saracen  _had_  released him. With a few flourishes, it could be easily made to look as if Balian had really made a deal with the enemy to secure his own release.

"Who can bear witness to these allegations?" demanded Raymond of Guy as the herald finished reading. "You have no witnesses, do you, milord?"

"In fact, my lord of Tiberias, I do," said Guy. Another man was brought forth. Godfrey recognized him. He'd taken pity on the man years ago, and now he wished he hadn't been so merciful.

Gilles le Fouillon knelt before the king, next to the man whom he'd sworn to serve. He would not look at Balian. At least he had the decency to feel shame, but not enough to prevent him from bearing false witness. For what price had Balian's life been sold? Godfrey would really like to know.

"What is your name?" asked the king.

"Gilles of Fournier, Sire," said Gilles, his voice quavering.

"Is it true what they say about this man, Gilles of Fournier?" asked the king.

"Y-yes, milord," said the man.

"Tell the court what you saw, Gilles," said Guy.

"I-I saw this man making a deal with the Saracens. In exchange for his life, he was going to work for them and betray the kingdom of God!"

Murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd. They could think of no worse crime than this. This was treason, not only against the king, but against God also. Guy smiled, thinking that he had succeeded. And then, without warning, Maria stood. All eyes turned to her. The Dowager Queen hardly ever interfered with the affairs of state, preferring to watch and listen. However, when she spoke, everyone paid heed.

"If I may, Your Grace," she said. The king nodded. She stepped down from the dais slowly, taking care with each step. Her silken skirts rustled. She stopped just before Gilles. The man was visibly trembling now. Bearing false testimony was one thing. Facing questioning by the Dowager Queen of Jerusalem was something else entirely.

"Monsieur Gilles, what exactly did you see?" she asked.

"I saw this man making a deal with the Saracens to work for them if they let him live," stammered Gilles.

"He made a deal even though it was almost certain he would be ransomed?" asked the queen. Hushed silence fell over the court. "What was the deal?"

"He…he's going to spy for them and give them all our secrets."

"How do you know this?" asked Maria.

"I heard it, milady," said Gilles.

"So…this man makes a treasonous deal with the enemy in the open in front of twenty or so men who may or may not turn him in once he returns to Jerusalem despite the fact he was most likely going to be ransomed even if he were not released," said Maria slowly, making sure the meaning of her words sank in. "What exactly did he say?"

"I…I can't remember," stammered Gilles. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. He dared not look up, lest Maria saw the lie in his eyes.

"No?" said Maria. She turned to the gathered noblemen. The Dowager Queen might not be capable of wielding a sword, but a woman such as her had no need of weapons made of iron. Godfrey only wondered why she was helping his son. "Is there anyone who can verify your claim?"

"No, milady," said Gilles.

"So you are the only man out of the twenty prisoners who heard what took place between Balian of Ibelin and the Saracens," she said. "That is very strange, because I saw them return to Kerak. Unless they were all part of the scheme, then do you mean to tell us none of them heard anything?"

—

Of all the people who could have stepped forward to save Balian, it was Maria who had done it. Maria, who had little emotional ties to anything or anyone, had managed to keep a clear head. Godfrey wondered why he had not thought of it. Then again, he hadn't known who had betrayed his son or how they were planning to do it.

Things did not go so smoothly for Gilles after that. Maria turned it around on him, accusing him of framing an innocent knight. She tried to drag Reynald into it, but Reynald had not survived for so long by being a fool. He distanced himself from the unfolding disaster and claimed the man came to him. Gilles' house was searched, and they found fifty gold dinars in a chest. Reynald took the chance to accuse him of being bribed by the Saracens to help them get rid of a good Christian knight. No one would take a treacherous mercenary's word over that of a lord. Gilles was dragged screaming into the dungeons to await his trial.

Godfrey paid no heed to it. He rushed to his son. "Undo these irons!" he barked at the guards. They fumbled with their keys, stunned by what had happened. Balian was hardly able to stand. Each step he took made him grimace, and his face was etched with pain.

More blood had soaked through the thin linen shirt he wore and he winced in pain when Godfrey's hand touched his back. The older man's fingers came away sticky.

"I thought he was not your son, milord," said Reynald.

"It was a misunderstanding," said Godfrey, who wanted nothing more than to deprive Reynald of some of his teeth for what he had done. It was the least that the man deserved. However, that would not be a diplomatic thing to do. The king would not approve. Besides, he needed to get his son home where his wounds would be seen to.

—

The threadbare linen stuck to the drying blood. Balian sucked in air through his teeth as Brother John gently peeled the fabric off him, revealing the myriad of lacerations on his body. His back was a mass of raw flesh that still seeped. He lay on his front as the Hospitaller cut the linen shirt away from him. Occasionally, he winced, but he did not complain. He had nothing to complain about.

"How is he, John?" asked Godfrey. The older man's fists were clenched and his face was white with rage as the extent of what had been done to Balian was revealed inch by inch.

"He's a survivor, like the rest of you Ibelins," said John. "Now, can you please go and wait outside? I cannot work when you are looking at me like that."

"But…!"

"I will call for you if we need you," said John. "Right now you are giving me unnecessary distraction." Godfrey reluctantly did as he was told. Balian had the feeling he wasn't used to taking orders from anyone except the king. The Hospitaller cut away the last of the shirt and began to sponge away the congealed blood with a damp cloth. Balian hissed and tensed.

John rinsed the cloth several times in the water until it became red with blood before resuming his work. "You will bear these marks for the rest of your life," he said, shaking his head. "I am sorry."

"I still live," said Balian. "I am grateful for that."

"Yes. If you look at it that way, you are very fortunate you got away with only a few scars. There is no known extent to Reynald de Chatîllon's cruelty." The Hospitaller withdrew a few dried leaves and roots from a leather pouch and crushed them with a mortar and pestle, adding water to it to make a paste. "Hold still. This will burn."

When the poultice made contact with his wounds, Balian wondered if he was being flayed alive. Fire shot through him and it didn't subside until his throat was raw from holding back in his cries. As it were, a few whimpers escaped him, and cold sweat broke out over his body. John bound his wounds with clean linen bandages and gave him a brew to drink.

"I will be back in a few hours to change your dressing," said the Hospitaller. "In the meantime, rest, and don't think about anything."

—

"That was a failure," said Reynald.

"I hadn't counted on the Greek vixen interfering," said Guy as he paced. "What now, Reynald? I cannot suffer him to live."

"You can't touch him now," said Reynald. "Even if the king didn't love him, the rest of the court seems to. The Dowager Queen already suspects us of trying to frame him, and I wouldn't cross her."

"But you are Reynald de Chatillon!"

"And she is Maria Comnena, Dowager Queen, mother to a princess and great niece of an emperor our leper king doesn't want to offend."

Guy stamped his foot, knowing fully well he was behaving like a petulant child, but what could he do? Even Reynald's hands were tied. Balian would have to die by some other, much less legal, means. That would take a lot of planning, and after this failed attempt, the Ibelins were on their guard. They made for terrible enemies.


	7. Quid Pro Quo

Rumours ran unchecked in the city. Everyone was speculating about what had happened to the son of Godfrey. If there had been anyone who had never heard of him before, they learned quickly that Balian of Ibelin was a name they should know. After all, if the Dowager Queen decided he was worth saving, then he was definitely worth keeping an eye on. They had no idea why, but they hoped they would find out soon.

"Why would the Dowager Queen save him?" Baudouin wondered out loud.

Godfrey took a careful sip of his wine, rolling it around contemplatively on his tongue. Why indeed? Maria had no reason —no rational reason— to want Balian alive or dead. Then again, he had never claimed to understand her. He had only ever taken pity of that young girl who had come to a foreign court to marry a man old enough to be her father. Now that girl was gone, replaced by an unfathomable woman.

"I don't know," he finally said.

"I don't understand," said Baudouin. "Why would she care? What is it about him? He's nobody."

"He's your brother," said Godfrey sharply.

"I know that, Father, but to her, he is nothing. She cares not for handsome faces. She won't look twice at me, so why would she show such interest in him?" Baudouin sat down and hit his knee repeatedly with his fist, as if that would somehow crack the mystery. "First Sibylla, and now Maria. What does he have that I don't?"

"Baudouin, it is not a matter of lack," said Godfrey. He had known for a while that his older son was jealous of his brother. But the truth was, he could not help favouring the younger man any more than the boy had been able to help falling in love with Sibylla. He was strong, gentle, kind, and good. Perhaps he was doing both his sons and injustice by putting Balian on a pedestal and comparing him with Baudouin. They were so different from one another. But he couldn't help it.

"Then what is it?" asked Baudouin.

Godfrey had no answer for him.

* * *

A bird trilled in the courtyard below. Fountains bubbled. The palace was an oasis of greenery in a desert city. Dust clouds rose as the wind blew sand high above the rooftops. It was stopped by the gauzy curtains that filtered the blazing sunlight. In the cool shade of Maria's chambers, the dowager queen reclined on a couch as two handmaids fanned her to keep her cool. A glass of sherbet rested on an engraved silver tray within her reach. The heat wave had little effect on her. Not one hair was out of place, and there was not the slightest sheen of sweat on her forehead.

"Milady, Lord Balian requests an audience with you," said Anna, her handmaid whom she had brought with her from Constantinople.

"Send him in," said Maria without looking up from her scroll of Arabic poetry. She only put it down when he entered and knelt on one knee before her.

Dust stuck to the trails of sweat on his face. His finest robes —which were sadly underwhelming— were covered in a layer of dust. Yet, despite his dishevelled appearance, he was still beautiful to look at. Perhaps it was because he was so dishevelled that she found him attractive. He was a man, not a political machine.

"Milady," he said, bowing his head.

"Please, do rise," she said, holding out a hand to him to indicate he should come closer. "Anna, bring Lord Balian something to drink. He must be parched."

Anna curtseyed and left. Maria dismissed the two other handmaids who were fanning her. She needed to be alone with Balian. Being a widow, she had more freedom than most women.

"Sit," she said. He did as she asked. However, he kept his eyes lowered, like a servant. "How are your wounds?"

"They are better," he said, still not looking at her. "I have you to thank for that."

"I only did what was right," she said. "No innocent man should be punished for crimes he did not commit. Why do you not look at me, milord? Am I really so repulsive?"

Finally, he lifted his head. He had the most beautiful eyes; so full of passion and anguish and feeling. A man's eyes were the windows into his soul, and Balian's could be read like a book. Yet, there was a sense of guardedness about him. "The truth could not be further from that, milady," he said.

"Then is it because you fear me?" she asked, more gently. "You have no need to be afraid."

"I do not fear you, milady. But I am beneath you, and I should not be sitting here as your equal."

"Are we not beyond that now, Balian? I saved your life. We are bound now. Come. Tell me why you are here."

"I came to thank you, milady. I will not forget what you have done for me, and even though I do not know how, I will repay you."

"That would not be so difficult," said Maria. "Marry me."

His eyes flew to her face. He gaped at her for a few moments, unable to process what she had just asked of him. Then he knelt before her, not caring how hard the tiles on the floor were.

"Milady, I would do anything within my power to repay you, but this I cannot do."

"Why not?" she asked. "You are a widower and I am a widow. There is nothing improper about it. You need a rich heiress and I have a rich dower. Am I too old for you? I may be past my prime, but let me assure you, twenty nine is hardly elderly."

"It is not that, milady," he said. "But…I love another. I belong to her. It would not be fair on either of us if I should be with you in body, while my soul is with her. Ask anything else of me, I beg you, but I cannot be your husband."

"It is Sibylla, no?" asked Maria. "The baby. He's yours, isn't he?"

The young man could not have been more alarmed, but he staunchly swallowed his panic. When he next spoke, there was nothing weak about him, although he was still on his knees before her, and if she so wished, she could have him killed in a heartbeat. "If you make such allegations, milady, then I shall have to kill you and then be killed myself," he said. "I will not let anyone hurt them. No one."

Maria chuckled. "You really do love her, don't you?" she asked. "At first, I had thought it was merely the thrill of illicit passion, but it is more than that, is it not? I have never seen a man love a woman the way you do Sibylla. I do not understand it, and I will not try, but I admire you for it, and I envy her."

She smiled and reached out to touch his hand. He shrank back from her, as if he was afraid she would burn him, or worse.

"Your secret is safe with me, Balian. It would do me no good to reveal it. While I would not mind destroying Sibylla, I refuse to risk a civil war. The barons will not care if the boy is not Guy's. He is of Sibylla's loins and Amalric's bloodline. That is what matters. As for you, why would I want to hurt you after all the pains I have taken to preserve your life?" She cupped his face in her hand and brushed a thumb softly across a healing cut on his cheek. He stiffened at her touch. "It is strange, but I have no wish to see you hurt again."

He bowed his head. "Thank you," he said.

"Don't thank me just yet. I never grant favours without a price. I will give you time to reconsider my offer, Balian of Ibelin," said Maria. "You need a wife and I need a husband. We could do great things together, you and I. Don't answer me now. Talk it over with your father, and maybe even with your darling Sibylla. You may think differently after."

* * *

To say he was confused and conflicted would have been an understatement. He didn't know what to think of what had just happened. He didn't know whether Maria would keep his secret. She was a very persuasive and a very dangerous woman. Who knew what she was thinking?

Balian had no reason to trust or distrust the dowager queen. She had saved his life, although that might have been because she had wanted him for a husband. What would she do if he married her and helped her to take her dower of Nablus? What would she do if he didn't? More importantly, what would she do to Sibylla and the baby?

Sibylla and the little prince; he needed to see them with his own eyes. Perhaps it was foolish and dangerous, now that the secret had already spread. If Maria knew, then who else knew? Guy? Of course Guy would suspect something. But why hadn't Guy said anything? If he could ruin him with one word, then why hadn't he already done so?

Sweat trickled into still healing wounds, but he did not notice the physical discomfort. Questions swirled in his mind, but no answer was forthcoming. They drowned out the sounds of the market as he rode through the dusty streets. People whispered about him as he passed, but he paid them no heed. His legend was growing larger than he was. The palace servants heard everything, and they talked. A lot.

His horse's hooves clattered as he rode into the courtyard. His recovering body was stiff after the ride through the city, and he knew, without a doubt, a lecture from both his father and Brother John awaited him. His father, in particular, treated him like a child sometimes, as if he had not already been blooded in battle. Hell, if God had let him, he would have been a father already.

'You are a father.' The thought came unbidden to him. He quickly pushed it away, afraid that even thinking it might be too much, that someone might be able to pluck his thought out of his head and use it against his child and the woman he loved. How could he protect them when he was so helpless and at the mercy of others?

"Balian!" He looked up. His father was running across the courtyard towards him with Baudouin on his heels. "Where have you been? You were not supposed to go anywhere! You are not well enough."

"He seems perfectly fine, Father," said Baudouin. "You need not concern yourself."

"I have been to see the Dowager Queen," said Balian.

Baudouin's expression changed immediately. "You  _what_?" he said.

"I went to thank her for the part she played in saving my life. Without her help, I would a dead man," said Balian. Baudouin seemed to think him incapable of doing anything. Perhaps he  _was_ a blacksmith. Perhaps he  _was_  unused to the way things were in the kingdom, but it did not mean he was an idiot.

"Of course," said Godfrey. "It was the right thing to do, but you should not have left your bed so soon. Your body needs rest."

"Father, you fought two days with an arrow in your testicle," said Balian. "If I am your son, then surely I am made of tougher stock."

"You have a good point," said Godfrey, finally relenting. "Now, come inside. We must talk."

He ushered Balian into one of the smaller sitting rooms, furnished only with a rug, a low table, and four chairs. Godfrey closed the door behind them and looked out the window to make sure no one was close enough to hear what would be said inside the room.

"Tell me everything, Balian. What did she say? Raymond and I have been wondering what she'd thought she could gain by saving you," said Godfrey.

"She proposed…an arrangement…" said Balian, trying to think of a way to say it that did not make it seem so daunting and awkward. The severity of the situation suddenly dawned on him, and it frightened him more than he would have wanted to admit. Him, the husband of the Dowager Queen? Even if he hadn't loved Sibylla, he could not see himself being married to Maria. He was a blacksmith. A  _blacksmith_! He was no lord, no matter what his father said. He had no place with a queen. Yet, he loved a princess, did he not? And now he was father to a future king…

"She asked me to marry her," he finally said. It was easier than trying to say it in a roundabout way.

There was silence as his brother and father absorbed the revelation with slack-jawed surprise. "I see," said Godfrey at last. "That was…unexpected. I never thought of that. What did you say?"

"You accepted her proposal, I hope," said Baudouin.

"I haven't," said Balian.

"Why not?" His brother's voice was a mixture of fury and exasperation and jealousy. "She is the Dowager Queen and the Roman Emperor's niece! Whoever marries her will get her dower lands of Nablus!"

"I love Sibylla," said Balian. "I cannot betray her like this."

"Oh, you're in  _love_ ," said Baudouin. "Well, that justifies everything, doesn't it? You threw away the best chance to advance our family because of  _love_. Only fools believe in romance, brother! I knew you would never be able to survive in Jerusalem. You don't have what it takes."

"Baudouin," said Godfrey with a warning tone in his voice.

The older brother fell silent, but he still glared at Balian.

"She told me to reconsider… Father, and to ask you."

Godfrey patted Balian's shoulder a little awkwardly, but he smiled. "What else did she say?" he asked his youngest son.

Balian hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to alarm his father further, but Godfrey was the one who knew the kingdom. He was the one who knew what to do. Ergo, he had to know. "She knows everything about Sibylla and me," he said. "But she said…she would not tell anyone. She said she could not risk a civil war."

"Of course she could not," said Godfrey. "If there is one thing I know about Maria, it is that she is a practical woman. If your prince had been a princess, we would all be dead men, and Sibylla would be disgraced. But since the prince is the prince everyone has been praying for, she knows she cannot risk dividing the kingdom. Some barons would rather have a bastard son of the royal house on the throne than a legitimate half Greek princess."

"So you believe she was telling the truth, then, when she said she would keep the secret?" asked Balian.

"I do," said Godfrey. "As for marrying her, I think you have no choice in the matter. You need a wife. You need to think of yourself, Balian." Balian remained silent. Yes, he knew he needed get married. They had been telling him that for a while now and there were so few eligible women in the kingdom. If he were the heir, he could marry a poor bride but as a younger son who would be nothing more than his brother's castellan when his father passed, hopefully a long, long time from now, he needed a rich wife if he were to maintain his place. Maria… Queen Maria…

"Now, there is something else I need to tell you," said Godfrey. In his mind, the matter of the match was settled and all that remained was to tell the king of it and ask his blessing. "The king has requested your presence tomorrow morning."

"What is it?" asked Balian. "Why does he wish to see me?"

"That is for him to tell you," said Godfrey.

* * *

Like the last time Balian had been to see the king, their meeting was private and held in the king's chambers. Flames flickered on lamp stands around the room, and smoke curled up from the sticks of incense to try and mask the smell of decay. The king did not even need to turn around to know that he was there.

"You are better, I hope?" he asked as Balian knelt.

"Yes, your grace. Thank you for your concern," said Balian, bowing his head.

"Please, rise," said the king as he slowly rose from his seat and finally turned around. He was wearing a different mask this time. Rather than a plain silver mask, he wore one engraved with flowing vines and leaves. The only thing he could see of the king were the pale blue eyes, so like Sibylla's.

The king walked a small distance away, although judging by the effort he was making, one might have thought he was trying to walk the length of the Levant. He sat himself in another chair facing Balian, and indicated that the knight should sit as well.

Balian perched on the edge of a chair carved out of cedar. He fingered the grooves on the arms of the chair nervously, waiting for the king to speak.

"Do you know why you are here?" asked the king.

"No, Your Grace," said Balian. "My father did not tell me."

"No, for I commanded him not to. You are a rare kind, Balian of Ibelin. You are either very honest, or very very shrewd."

Balian didn't know what to say to that. The king did not seem to mind. He continued.

"I want the truth, Balian," said the king. "Are you or are you not the father of my sister's son?"

Balian gaped at the king. He knew? He  _knew_? "It is true," he said. "The fault lies with me."

"I am not looking to lay blame on anyone. I merely wished to hear the truth from your lips," said the king.

"What will happen to them? To the princess and…the little prince?"

"Should you not be calling him your son, since you admit to being the father?"

Balian shook his head. "I am not his father. Guy is. As far as the world knows, that is the truth."

"And it must remain that way, for the sake of the kingdom. But, tell me, Balian. What will you do now that your son is the heir to the throne?"

It was a test of his loyalty. How many men in his situation would be tempted to use it to their advantage? He might not have been brought up in court, but he could understand this simple truth; power drew men the way fire drew moths. He knelt on one knee and bowed his head.

"Whatever he asks, I will serve, as I serve you now, Your Grace," he said.

"Very good," said the king. "I am glad to hear you say it because I wondered, for a moment, whether your family had planned all of this; to put your son on the throne and then take power through him."

"If you think that of me, then I beseech you to execute me now, if it would allay your suspicions."

"Do you play a game with me, Balian? Do you think I would not kill you if I thought you were a threat to my kingdom?"

"No. I believe you would."

"Then I was right to trust you. You are no fool, but you are an honest man." He rose to his feet unsteadily, but with all the authority of a sovereign. "Balian of Ibelin, you might not be the father of a king, but you will raise a king."

* * *

When she heard the news, Sibylla had to press her hand to her mouth to suppress her cry of elation. Balian would stay in Jerusalem as her son's guardian and arms tutor! She thanked God for her brother. She had not thought he would understand, but he did. He knew how important it was for her son to grow up with his real father by his side, even though the boy would never know the truth.

"There was no better candidate," said Raymond. A smile adorned his usually dour face. Was it possible that he knew as well? Of course. Raymond was a close confidant of both her brother and Godfrey, and Sibylla was quite certain Balian would have told Godfrey. Their secret was not quite as secret as they had wanted, but perhaps that was for the best. Why else would her brother have appointed Balian? "Although, nothing is settled until you have approved of him yourself. You are, after all, the boy's mother."

"Then I shall see him at once," said Sibylla. "Although my son is still too young to have an arms tutor, I should like to assess the man my brother has chosen."

"That is well, for he is already waiting outside," said Raymond. "Shall I send him in, milady?"

"Do, cousin," said Sibylla, hardly able to contain her eagerness. Balian was staying. Perhaps a thousand pairs of eyes would be watching them. Perhaps Ibelin had been just a beautiful dream which had ended too soon, but he would be here to watch their son grow up. Sibylla had never been as grateful as she was now. When Raymond left her to summon Balian, she turned her eyes towards Heaven.

God had seen and heard, and He had answered.

* * *

To say he was overwhelmed was the understatement of the decade. Perhaps the century. Him? Tutor to a king? He was a commoner. A blacksmith, albeit a literate one. But still…how could he teach a king? Balian toyed with the cup in his hand, letting the last drops of wine roll around at the bottom of the vessel, while his father, Brother John, and his brother watched him closely.

"I cannot believe the king appointed me the prince's tutor," whispered the young man. The meeting with the king and with Sibylla had seemed like a vague and vivid dream. It could not possibly have happened, could it? The little prince…he could stay by the boy and guard him and raise him. The little prince who resembled him in so many ways…

"You fathered a future king, brother," said Baudouin. "I find that even harder to believe."

Godfrey whipped around immediately. "Quiet, Baudouin. I do not want to hear you making such ludicrous claims ever again. You never know who might be listening," he said.

Baudouin shrugged. "The rumours are everywhere. The whole city suspects something. Perhaps it's not such a bad thing. Think of what we could achieve with an Ibelin on the throne."

Balian slammed the cup on the table, making everything else on it bounce. He stood. "If you think I would exploit my position, then you are wrong about me, brother," he said, his eyes flashing. The other men looked at him. Brother John seemed amused, while Raymond seemed to be seeing him for the first time. "As I serve the king now, I will serve his nephew when he is king."

"Is it really such a bad thing to have us in charge?" asked Baudouin. "Everyone expects you to. They all suspect you of being more than just the prince's tutor. There is no better chance for us!"

"No," said Balian.

"You…!" Baudouin was speechless. Balian remained silent. For a moment, the two brothers glared at one another and neither of them moved. At last, Baudouin stormed away, unable to sway his brother.

"Spoken like a true son of Godfrey's," said Brother John, slowly standing and clapping.

"But Baudouin has a point," said Godfrey. "No, don't look at me like that, the two of you. I wouldn't expect you to abuse your position, Balian. But there are rumours about…you and the princess, and they will persist unless you prove them wrong."

"How am I going to do that?" asked Balian.

"By marrying," said Brother John. "That cannot completely dispel the rumours, but perhaps you could allay them, at least until the gossips grow bored and move onto something else."

There it was again. Marriage. "The Dowager Queen has proposed to me," said Balian.

"Very good," said Brother John. "Does the king know?"

* * *

The king sat in the smoky darkness of his study and listened to Balian and Godfrey's petition in silence. It was some time before he smoke. "Maria Comnena desires to put her daughter, my half-sister, on the throne," he remarked at last after hearing the Ibelins' request. "You would do well to be her husband, Balian. I expect you would keep her in check." A pause. "Have you told my sister?"

"No, Your Grace," said Balian quietly. He looked at the flagstones on the floor.

"I will tell her," said Godfrey. It would be too difficult for the boy. He was not one for words and Sibylla's feelings about her stepmother were well-known. She would not take it well, but she would have to take it. It would be better for the bad news to come from him. Besides, Godfrey desired to see her and his… no, it was treason to even think it. But, still, a little grandson, in blood if not in name!

He kept on thinking about what he would say as he walked through the shaded walkways to Sibylla's quarters. He found her sitting by the cradle, embroidering a new dress for her son. In the custom of Europe, children, regardless of sex, were dressed as girls until the age of five to ward off bad luck.

"Godfrey," she greeted him when he was announced. "What a welcome surprise." She smiled. Her eyes were tired but her face was content. "Come, sit. Catherine, pour us some wine."

"Are you well, my lady?" asked Godfrey.

"Quite," said Sibylla. She put down her needlework and folded her hands in her lap. "Have you come to see the little prince? I am afraid he is asleep right now."

"Then it is best we do not wake him or we risk facing his ire," said Godfrey with a smile. "I raised two boys. I know."

"I never took you for a father who would spend enough time with his children to know the power of their wrath," said Sibylla. "Melisende was a nightmare. She would never sleep. But you didn't come to talk about the slumber of babes, did you, dear Godfrey?"

"No," said Godfrey. "I come…about Balian."

"Is he…" Her voice faltered.

"He is well," said Godfrey. "And due to be married."

"I see," said Sibylla softly. She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of wine.

"The wedding will be at Michaelmass."

"And the bride?"

"The Dowager Queen, your stepmother. The king has given them his blessing."

Sibylla sucked in a breath then let it out slowly. She seemed as if she would fight him on this, but what would she fight and how could she fight? She had no claim on Balian. If her brother the king had approved the marriage then there was nothing she could do. "Michaelmass is very soon," she said.

"It is high time that he was wed, don't you agree, my lady?" asked Godfrey. "I come in the hope that I might bear your blessing back to him."

Sibylla nodded. She understood better than anyone what a precarious position the youngest Ibelin son was in. Rumours could create rumours. First, the prince's parentage would come under question. And then they would begin to say Balian intended to place his own flesh and blood on the throne, and to assuage the court, drastic actions would have to be taken to assure the barons that the Ibelins were  _not_  about to take over the kingdom.

She wrapped a thread of red silk about her fingers, and then unwound it. "He has it," she said.


End file.
